


of longing, heartache, and lust

by Spencer_Grey



Category: The Witcher (TV), The Witcher (TV) RPF, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OC characters, Post-Season/Series 01, but not really, long burn, my only way to cope is writing, quarantine is killing me, she is the only one with braincells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23325241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer_Grey/pseuds/Spencer_Grey
Summary: Jaskier does what he can to keep his mind free of that damn Witcher that broke his heart. But it's never enough.Until the bard is swept up by a pretty face and finds himself the home he's been desperate to find all his life.Geralt, of course, finds a problem with this and goes to find his bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 414





	of longing, heartache, and lust

There is a body, hungry and needing, pressed against his own, soft and inviting lips travelling up and down his neck, and nimble fingers trailing further and further down his abdomen. 

And Jaskier feels nothing. 

Well, of course, he feels _something_ \- purely physical like the pull he felt to this girl now straddling his lap. That’s the entire point, to simply feel, to be touched, loved if only for a night. But Jaskier has become numb to everything else, like he’s drowning under the ocean. He knows where the coast lays, where it’s gone, just out of reach of his desperation - uncaring of his pleas and - 

The girl’s firm lips worship his own but her hair is too bright for Jaskier to kid himself and say the Witcher isn’t still on his mind. Though, her hands are softer than that calloused skin ever could be and her voice is sweet enough to fool him. Maybe tonight he’ll be granted the blessing of losing the memories that haunt him. 

Jaskier gives it all to this girl, the attention she’s been craving, the validation that she is wanted by someone - if Geralt had asked, the bard would’ve given it, would’ve done anything he wanted - he gives the fragile pieces of himself that are hardly holding together, pressing into her wandering hands. 

He passes control to her, lets her do as she pleases, lets her make him feel whatever she sees fit. He knows now, scarred from past experience, to never lead. The last time he tried, Geralt pushed him so far away Jaskier couldn’t even see him standing there. 

The bard can’t remember where he found this girl. A tavern most likely. He wonders whether he’s paying to be treated so recklessly - that would be something new from this numbing routine.

Whatever the case may be, the night unfolds how they both wish and finally - fucking _finally_ \- Jaskier gets that rush, feeling something. For only a few moments, though, before the crushing hollowness returns. 

He leaves the girl where she sleeps, settling into this decaying cycle. She turns into another and another, some men sprinkled between, and a few he never cared to figure out. It doesn’t matter though, they all give him that fleeting feeling and when that’s gone, he goes in search for another substitute for something he misses sorely. 

Something to make him forget how he’s wasted the last two decades of his life on someone who never gave a shit about him. Every time - and he means every time - he finds a new bed to fall into, he wishes, prays to every deity he can name that this will be the moment Geralt comes crashing back into his life. That he’ll demand Jaskier’s help with some disgusting monster and the bard will pretend he doesn’t want to, he’ll pretend for a whole ten seconds before leaping at the opportunity to join his Witcher again. 

He won’t have to apologise - no, Jaskier doesn’t expect that much. He’ll take whatever is given to him and he’ll give what he must, just _please_ let him have Geralt back. 

Geralt never comes. And Jaskier stops believing he ever will. 

The road is lonely with only his lute banging against the back of his legs and his trudging feet to pay any mind to. He travels until he all but collapses, going with whoever wants him for that moment and, at all costs, keeps his thoughts free of a certain golden eyed Witcher. 

Until one fateful night. 

It’s freezing and with the recent downpour, the sticks and leaves he wants to make a fire with are too damp. Jaskier’s clothes have had no chance to dry after he got caught in the rain, the wet material is chilling him to the bone. He hadn’t been able to find a bed tonight, it seems no one will take a bard like this, and has taken to camping in the forest. 

A bitter thought comes to him, saying it would be quite funny if he were to die here and, amidst his travels, Geralt finds himself in a similar situation, only to stumble across the bard’s corpse. Jaskier’s spirit could watch on, laughing as the Witcher’s struck with guilt, cursing the fool. 

Jaskier might laugh at that if it weren’t for the fact that his lips feel as though they are about to fall off. His fingertips have turned a sickly purple and his body is wracked with shivers. 

He’d thought the sour roar of his temper would be enough to warm him - but it seems that fire has died, with no energy to fuel it as he sits there. 

Jaskier sits forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and drops his head into his hands. 

_Stupid Geralt_ , he thinks. After the decades they’d known each other - a blink to the Witcher but half of Jaskier’s life - Geralt had a myriad of opportunities to cast Jaskier aside if they weren’t friends. Geralt could’ve let Jaskier die a few dozen times but he never did. 

How foolish it seems now to equate that with anything. 

Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier in his life? Fine. He gave up fighting for a place in it now. He’s given up fighting for a place in anyone’s life. Jaskier’s sick of always trying to force his place where it doesn’t fit. From lover to friends to family, he’ll always be left alone. 

Not even a lonely Witcher wants him. Just as Jaskier was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, they could’ve - 

But that was a childish, naive thought and he should’ve known better. He does now. 

He’s done fighting. 

He’s cold and tired and _done_. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and doesn’t expect to open them again. He truly shall die a heartbroken man. 

—

Slowly, Jaskier comes to, consciousness dragging him from his dreamless slumber. And, as always, he tries his best to refuse. He wants to roll over, bury his face into the pillow and wait for Geralt to come wake him. 

That name in Jaskier’s mind snaps him awake, his memory quickly catching up and he finally becomes aware of his surroundings. 

Jaskier’s in a bedchamber, not lying dead and cold on the forest floor. The bed he’s been placed in is larger than he’s ever seen, as soft as a cloud and a mountain of blankets adorning him. As sits up, he sees a blazing fireplace across the room from him - the surrounding walls are well decorated. This isn’t some spare room but intended for use. From him. 

The distinct gap in his memory makes Jaskier bolt from the bed - he doesn’t know where he is and he won’t wait until someone tells him. The moment his feet touch the ground, Jaskier tumbles to the ground, a cry escaping his lips.

Pain tears its way through his right leg. Looking down, Jaskier heart races in panic as he finds it wrapped in a wooden splint. Why can’t Jaskier remember breaking the bone? What happened to him?

Nevermind, he can figure that out later. For now, Jaskier uses the bed to lift himself up, avoiding as much pressure on his hurt leg as possible. The bard scans the room, finding a door on the far side and sighs deeply. Gritting his teeth with a wave of determination, Jaskier hurries first to the wall, leaning heavily against it. 

He was going to die in that forest. On his own terms. But it seems fate has other plans and now, he won’t let himself fall victim to someone else’s hands. Jaskier can get himself out of here. If only because he knows no one is coming for him. 

As he drags himself, Jaskier finally realises he’s been stripped of his wet clothes to his underwear. A shiver goes down his spine at the possible implications. His gaze crosses the room but finds nothing to dress himself in. But that’s not enough to stop him. 

Drenched in sweat from exertion and his lip torn from where he bit it to stop from screaming, Jaskier reaches the door. His leg throbs in with hot pain but if Jaskier is anything it’s stubborn, not knowing when to stop. He can’t stop now. 

The door opens without a squeak, revealing a never-ending hallway behind it. It’s deadly silent, Jaskier’s pounding heart like a drum. Beneath his bare feet, the maroon carpet eases some tension in his legs as he hops along. 

It takes far too much energy for Jaskier to reach a twist in the hallway, his whole body shaking, and as he leans against the wall to catch his breath, he mutters a swear. Two approaching soldiers stare dead at him. 

“Hey,” calls the one on the right, her voice strong and commanding. 

Jaskier turns on his heel and runs as fast as his limp will let him, it’s barely more than a walk. He hears the clanging of metal armour nearing behind him. 

For just a moment, too much pressure lands on his broken leg and it buckles under him. Jaskier collapses and sick with fear, his fingernails desperately claw for any purchase on the carpet as he tries to crawl away. 

“Shit, hey, hey, stop.” The soldiers have reached him. 

“Look, we’re not gonna hurt you, seriously. Just _stop_.” 

Jaskier hesitates. His mind tossing over their words - he’s tried and they sound earnest enough. And a cripple won’t make it far. 

As pathetic as he must look, Jaskier smooths his face and twists so he can see the guards. They’re both women, twins he thinks, with their equally dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. He notes their still sheathed swords - they weren’t expecting a fight. 

“Okay, good,” the one on the left sighs. “You better not have fucked up your leg anymore.” 

Jaskier feels strangely like he’s being scolded. He keeps his mouth shut, unwilling to give over any information although he’s starting to piece together that these people saved him. 

“Not a talker?” the right one asks. She shrugs. “No matter. We’re going to take you back to your room, okay? So just - don’t freak out on us.”

Jaskier glances between the women, their relaxed bodies and gentle gazes. He’s not in any danger unless this is the best-crafted lie he’s seen. Slowly, he nods and the women come forward. Bending down, they hold onto each of Jaskier’s arms and pick him up. 

His arms go over their shoulders, taking the pressure off his broken leg. He awkwardly hops along as the soldiers help him back to the room he was so eager to escape. They drop him onto the bed, helping him ease his leg onto the mattress. 

“Right.” There is no discernible difference between the women, their armour identical and Jaskier thinks it was on purpose. “I’ll get Ave, make sure her guest stays put.”

The soldier leaves while the other moves closer to the fireplace. She warms her hands over the flames, her lips curling in a smile when she notices Jaskier staring. 

“I’m quite impressed,” she says. “You got pretty far considering the mess of your leg.”

Jaskier bites his tongue - he’s never been known for keeping his mouth shut and this is a struggle. But his resolve is withstanding so far. He can only assume this Ave person will be asking all the questions. 

The woman continues, “You’re lucky we found you when we did. Any longer and our Mara wouldn’t have been able to start your heart again.”

His heart had stopped? 

So he had died. He’d frozen to death on the forest floor without a single person to care. No, someone _did_ care - these mysterious people found him and - and saved him. A stranger to them but here he is, warm and alive. 

Jaskier doesn’t trust them, not yet, not until he knows their intentions. 

“Just so you know, Ave will require more words out of you. Think of it as payment, for saving your life.”

As if on cue, the other twin soldier returns, a woman trailing behind her. 

Jaskier is left in awe. With hair as black as the starless night sky cascading down her back, the woman’s rich olive skin is adorned by the shimmering gleam of jewels. An emerald necklace travels the length of her revealing neckline, matching the dress of gold hugging her body. Weighted eyes brighter than the gemstone itself state back into Jaskier’s, like she knows and sees all. 

She smiles - and it’s like the first sight of a sun after a storm, warm and kind and refreshing. 

“Esca, Midas,” she says, her voice is smooth and sweet, “could you give us the room?” 

The soldiers nod, marching in unison from the room without a word. The door closes behind them, making the bard feel closed in, trapped with his disability. 

The woman, Ave he assumes, casually paces to the fireplace, her gaze bears into the flames as if they’re speaking to her. Jaskier pushes himself up further, trying to seem larger than an injured man bed ridden. 

“It’s lovely to see you awake,” Ave says, peering at Jaskier from the corner of her eye. “You looked absolutely dreadful when my men found you.” She laughs softly, clearing her throat as she sees her joke hasn’t landed. “Anyway, I’m sure you have many questions. Please, you’re free to ask me anything.” 

Jaskier sighs, giving up on his restraint. “What happened to my leg,” is the first question. 

Ave glances down, looking almost… _ashamed_ \- something Jaskier otherwise never would have pegged her to be capable of feeling. 

She explains, “It was dark and you were in a place we’ve never ran into someone before. My men didn’t see you until they were on top of you, quite literally. The horse couldn’t have known.”

“Why try to save a dead man?” _Why save me when I didn’t want it?_ is what he wants to say. 

She seems perplexed at the question. “You still had a pulse. My sorceress, Mara, was able to reverse any damage the cold did to you.”

Of course, there’s a sorceress - he can never escape them. “At what cost?” Jaskier asks. He wants to know what, sooner rather than later, he must pay for the price of magic. 

Ave turns to face him, her hands folding behind her. “Nothing from you, I promise. Mara will recover her energy and fix your leg soon.”

“So, what? You helped me from the kindness of your heart?”

“Is that so hard to imagine?”

 _Yes_ , Jaskier thinks. Everyone wants something - his only use is to _give_. His music, his service, himself. If he cannot give, he is not wanted. He couldn’t give Geralt whatever the fuck that damn Witcher needed. And so he was cast out. 

He says nothing but it seems Ave already knows.

“Look, Jaskier - ”

“How do you know my name?” he demands. 

Ave looks at him with a gentleness he hasn’t seen in years. “Everyone knows of you, Jaskier,” she says. “ _When a humble bard graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia_ \- ” he winces at the lyrics - “you’re as famous as him. I recognised you right away.”

It hits Jaskier then - he always sung of Geralt, to make him look better in the public’s eyes - he never sought to immortalise himself in the songs, but it seems he has. 

“Jaskier, I promise you are not a prisoner here,” she continues. “Once your leg heals, you may go wherever you like but - ”

“There’s always a but.”

“ - I do ask that you consider staying here, there's food and shelter and everything you could want. You would be a valuable asset.”

 _Valuable_. He’s never been valuable to anyone. “Asset?”

“We can discuss that later.”

“Fine,” he says shortly. “But I think I deserve to know who you are.”

“Oh, of course, how could I have forgotten.” 

Ave crosses the room, settling on the edge of the bed. Her hand reaches across Jaskier’s legs to lean herself against - a protective action if the bard didn’t know better. Her sparkling eyes skip across Jaskier’s almost bare body, a hunger clear as day in them. _That_ he wouldn’t mind giving up. 

“My friends call me Ave - ”

“And your enemies?”

She smirks. “Bitch. My husband was Earl of this court and when he passed, I simply refused to give up my power. People learned very quickly it would be too much trouble.”

Jaskier can’t help but laugh. Ave shares his grin. 

“Anything else?” she asks. 

Jaskier has to think. He doesn’t want to trust what this woman is saying but, whether it be the exhaustion or her charm, he finds himself being swayed by her words. The bed is too comfortable and the fire too warm for him to keep his defences up. 

“Can I have some clothes?” 

Ave chuckles. “How about this, you get rest and when you wake up, your clothes will be here for you. Dry, of course.” 

“I suppose that deal is acceptable,” Jaskier says. 

“I’m glad to hear.” 

With that Ave stands, seeming less dominating now. She is only a woman trying to keep control over what her husband ruled. 

Is Jaskier already smitten? Yes. Has he learned from his past mistakes? No. 

But that’s fine. As he slips into a peaceful slumber, Ave leaving him to the gentle warmth of the fire, Jaskier couldn’t care less about getting his heartbroken again. 

It’ll be a fun distraction from the last time. 

—

When he awakes - what? Hours later? There are no windows to the room so he can only assume - Jaskier first sees his red jacket mocking him from where it hangs on a chair near the smoldering hearth. With a groan, he sits up, remembering the stiff splint keeping his leg steady. 

Slowly, he limps his way to the chair, cursing whoever thought putting them so far away was a good idea.

Holding the last thing he saw Geralt in, Jaskier wonders why he ever kept it. A ridiculing reminder of being abandoned, the red material like his own blood, and Geralt’s cruel words like daggers in his skin - slicing the bard until nothing but a shell remained.

Jaskier rubs a finger over the shoulder, the texture’s like scales - again, how cruel and mocking can it get? Maybe if Geralt had realised he had his own dragon, a willing and eager dragon already at his side, he wouldn’t have cared so much about that stupid winged beast. About stupid Yennefer. 

He throws it into the flames. It burns, as quick as paper, as smoky as wood. So unlike an unburnable dragon, Geralt could never care about him. 

He tears his gaze away from the ashes - he won’t linger on the Witcher any longer - finding a simple white shirt he hadn’t seen before. Jaskier throws it on, happy to finally cover his bare chest. A pair of loose pants have been left out for him, he dresses quickly. 

Scanning the room, Jaskier’s eyes land on the door and, resting beside, a pair of wooden crutches.

He limps for them, giving a sigh of relief as the pressure is taken off his broken leg. Jaskier hesitates as he goes to reach for the doorknob, wondering whether he should wait for someone to collect him. 

Then realises he doesn’t give a shit. 

Maneuvering himself that best he can, Jaskier leaves the bed chamber. He adjusts quickly to walking with the crutches and turns left from his room - the opposite direction from where he’d tried to run. 

Distantly, Jaskier can hear the definite sounds of cheers and laughter - and decides to follow it. Maybe it’ll be this Mara person who’s supposed to fix his leg and he can get out of this place. 

He passes a portrait hung on the wall. He recognises Ave instantly, her green eyes unmistakable. She stands next to a man sitting in a chair - just short of a throne - that Jaskier can only assume was her husband. If possible, he was more beautiful than the Lady. With golden hair that rivals Geralt’s eyes and a jawline that could cut steel, the man makes Jaskier go weak in the knees. 

He prays that this couple had a child. While Ave doesn’t look a day over twenty, her mere presence speaks of her age. Too strong for someone young. 

The buzz of conversation grows louder until, as Jaskier reaches an open door, it seems large enough to be a party. But when Jaskier stands in the threshold, he finds the room holds barely a dozen people. A small table is all that is within, guarded by soldiers all standing to attention. 

He spots Ave first, seated at the head of the table with four others positioned around her. She smiles as she sees him, standing in greeting. 

“You’re just in time for lunch,” she says. “Come, sit.” 

A guard steps forward, one of the twins - and he thinks she’s the one who stood by the fireplace last night. Her dark eyes are soft as she pulls out a chair for him. Jaskier’s trying to remember if he heard Ave say the twins’ names but, as his eyes settle on the mountainous plate of food, every thought leaves his mind. 

His stomach grumbles in response. The guard snickers, taking his crutches and returns to her post. 

Jaskier’s eyes dart from the plate before him and Ave, who’s taken to watching him. He becomes uncomfortably aware of how every set of eyes are on him - and he can’t bring himself to look anywhere other than the Lady. 

“Don’t mind them, Jaskier,” Ave says, sensing his anxieties. “Help yourself. Orrott, what were you saying?” She turns to the man on her right. 

Orrott’s eyes linger on Jaskier for a moment longer before settling back onto Ave. “I was going to ask whether your - guest will be joining our…” he trails off, his attention once again landing on Jaskier, who’s trying to stuff his face full of tender lamb. 

Jaskier finally looks to the people surrounding him. Orrott, on first glance, is as large as Geralt. Looking again, he’s only slightly smaller than the Witcher, but it makes him nonetheless imposing. His bald head reflects the lights above and his stormy grey eyes are narrowed in distaste as they stare into Jaskier’s very soul. 

A girl to Orrott’s left mutters, “Is the bard going to move in or what?” into her tankard. Her sickly pale skin makes her cropped red hair look like fire. There’s no food before her, Jaskier notes. 

“That’s yet to be decided,” Ave answers - as though she doesn’t expect Jaskier to speak. Which he’s immensely grateful for, he wants to gain his bearings more before he opens up. 

“Are you sure he’s not a mute?” a woman to Jaskier’s left asks, looking at him though she’s addressing everyone else. 

“We talked about this,” another woman says. “How can a bard be a mute?” 

“He’s not a mute,” Ave tries to interject. 

“He could be. Maybe he just plays,” the first woman says. 

“How are you the smart one?” Orrott asks sarcastically, pointing his fork in her direction. “Everyone’s heard of his songs.” 

“Maybe it’s a kind of magic.” 

“It’s not magic,” the pale girl says, not even bothering to glance up. 

“It could be.” 

Jaskier’s eyes bounce all across the table and he finds his mouth twitching up in a smile despite himself. Only when it seems that this will never end, Jaskier says, “I’m not mute.” 

Ave sends him a grateful smile for ending the discussion. “See, I told you, Emeline.” 

The first woman, Emeline, slams her hand onto the table. “Damn it, bard, I had money riding on you.” 

Emeline’s dusty hair sways as she speaks, bobbing just under her ears. Her plump lips are curled in a playful smile as her honey coloured eyes sparkle in the light. 

“My apologies,” Jaskier says, “I wasn’t aware.” 

Emeline waves him off. “Next time, bard.” 

“I do have a name.” 

“So I’ve heard.”

Oh, Jaskier likes her. 

“How could I forget?” Ave says suddenly. “Jaskier, you must be so confused.” 

“Only slightly,” he says quietly. 

“My friends here tend to forget their manners,” she continues. “This is Emeline - ” she points to the woman who waves flirtatiously “ - and Kele.” Ave moves through the group. “Orrott and Mara.” 

“The sorceress,” Jaskier blurts. 

Mara's harsh gaze flickers to him for the briefest moment, blue like sapphires. “I’ll get to your leg, soon, alright?” 

“Don’t rush yourself,” he says. “I can wait however long you need. You did save my life after all.” 

Kele leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as she looks to Jaskier. “I’m curious, Jaskier - ” she throws a glance to Emeline - “how _did_ our men come across you in the middle of the forest?” 

Jaskier’s whole body tenses, turning his gaze elsewhere. _These are strangers_ , he thinks, _you shouldn’t be here_. _You don’t owe them anything_. 

“Please, everyone, let the man have some privacy,” Ave says sternly and everyone falls silent, staring down at their meals like scolded children. 

The rest of the meal is spent in awkward quiet, the scraping of forks on plates and shifting in seats. Jaskier takes the moment to take in everyone and everything in complete detail. 

He manages to catch Kele in the corner of his eyes. Her skin is sun-kissed, adorned with freckles, with auburn hair tied neatly into a braid that travels far past her bottom. Her almond eyes are focused as her dark, almost black, irises never settle on one place. 

Mara, on the other hand, where Kele is like the night, she is as bright as the day. Her hair aflame and sunken eyes a misty hazel. Even with her almost yellow skin, she’s as dazzling as everyone else here. 

Jaskier wonders if that’s a prerequisite to join Ave’s court. 

Once everyone has finished their meals - or drink in Mara’s case - Ave folds her hands on the table. 

“Emeline,” Ave says, “you and Orrott can show Jaskier around. Kele, make sure Mara doesn’t pass out halfway to her room. Again.” 

“It only happened once,” Mara protests weakly. 

“Or twice. Or four times,” Kele says, standing. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Mara mutters something under her breath but follows Kele. A guard follows after them - which Jaskier notes as strange but doesn’t think twice about it. 

Emeline stands, taking hold of Jaskier’s hand and brings him to his feet. The guard rushes forward, passing his crutches. 

“It seems you’re the only one I haven’t been introduced to yet,” he says to her. 

She smiles at him, soft and lovely, and why is everyone here so gorgeous? “Midas,” she says, offering her hand to him. 

He shakes it. Every second he spends here he becomes less and less convinced that there’s any danger. It doesn’t seem that bad here and it’s not like he has anywhere else to be. 

As Jaskier leaves the dining room, Emeline huddles against his left side while Orrott stands arms lengths away at his right. Midas follows wordlessly behind them. 

“So, Jaskier, I heard you’ve travelled with a Witcher,” Emeline says, having to consciously slow her steps to stay in pace with the bard. 

“It - it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he answers. His hold on the wood in his hands tightens. 

Still, the only interesting thing about him is Geralt. 

“Em, he doesn’t want to talk about that,” Orrott says to the surprise of Jaskier. He’d misjudged how observant the burly man is. 

“Oh,” she says, “why didn’t you say so? No matter. So, I heard about the little escapade from last night.” 

Jaskier gives something that’s between a scoff and a laugh. “Well, can you blame me?” 

“I suppose I can’t. Though, when I arrived here I was fully conscious and felt no need to run.” 

“Lucky you.” 

Orrott interrupts, his voice is rougher than any others Jaskier has heard. “If you want to know something, bard, you must ask it.” 

“ _Orrott_ ,” Emeline says firmly. “Don’t mind him,” she adds sweeter. 

“Just because you know nothing of social cues.” 

“Do you really want to get into that?” 

Orrott grumbles something Jaskier can’t hear - and he clears his throat in hopes to diffuse the sudden tension. 

“Actually,” Jaskier says. “I was wondering about some things.” 

Emeline gives a tight smile, ignoring the way Orrott smirks. “Of course, anything you want to know.” 

“Just before, you said when you arrived. Did you all come here in a similar way - as I did?” 

“Simply put yes,” Emeline answers. “One way or another we found our way to Ave’s estate, where she saved us, in different ways.” 

Finally, this all makes sense. “So, you’re indebted to her. That’s why you stay.” At least Jaskier can start to figure out what he’s to give. 

“Gods, no,” Orrott hisses, looking down at Jaskier as if he’s a pitiful ant. “We’re here by choice. Ave would never force us to stay.” 

“We know Ave has given you the same offer,” Emeline says. “Join her court, be of value to someone. It’s only that, an offer, not a demand.” 

“What value am I to her?” Jaskier asks. “What value are you to her?”

Emeline bits her lip, preventing herself from saying the wrong thing - or the right thing in Jaskier’s case. He can feel Midas, the steady quiet presence behind them, take a few large strides and now, she’s all but breathing down his neck. Between her and Orrott, Jaskier is trapped. 

_Ah, finally,_ this _is where the danger lies_. Words are powerful and the wrong ones at the wrong times are lethal. Jaskier is desperate to know which one those are. 

“You are the most famous bard in the entire continent,” Emeline says at last. “Who can’t see value in that? And as for me, I’m the brightest mind in the whole world.” 

“The whole world? Aren’t you very arrogant,” Jaskier teases. 

“I only speak facts and the fact is Ave offers a safe space for the most extraordinary of their talents. You, with the most angelic voice. Orrott here, with being the most skilled warrior.”

Jaskier casts Orrott a glance, relaxing as he feels Midas fall back again. “Well, he’s no Witcher.” 

“I’m as good as,” Orrott says. 

“And the others,” Jaskier continues. “Mara, I assume is a talented sorceress .” 

“Good enough to save your sorry ass,” Emeline retorts. 

“Hmm, though not the best.” Purple eyes flash across Jaskier’s mind - as much as he hates to admit it, Yennefer could’ve saved him with so much as a blink. 

“Try telling Mara that.” Orrott laughs. 

“And Kele?” Jaskier continues. 

“You’ve seen her,” Emeline says. “Have you met someone more beautiful?” 

There is only one person that Jaskier thinks is truly beautiful. “That is her value?” he says instead. “Her appearance?”

Orrott shrugs. “She’s also skilled with a paintbrush but she’d rather be known for this.” 

“Oh, Jaskier, come,” Emeline says, her face lighting up in excitement. “You must see the music room, it’s incredible.” 

Once Jaskier has hobbled after a bouncing Emeline, he follows her into the most grand room he’s ever seen. An expanding room lined with every instrument he’s ever heard of and more. He’s left breathless. The walls are painted with sheet music, hundreds of songs simply planted there for all to read. 

One thing catches his eye. 

“Is that my lute?” There, in the center of the room like the most prized possession, sits his lute, clean and polished. 

“Ave thought it better to have it here, for safekeeping,” Orrott explains. 

Jaskier nods. Nothing devious about that. 

Emeline laughs at the awestruck expression that’s taken his face. “Just wait. There’s more.”

Jaskier doesn’t know how there could possibly be more when, originally, he hadn’t thought this was a castle. But, he will come to know of the wealth Ave’s late husband had. 

There’s a library with never-ending shelves that stretch as tall as the ceiling. There’s a gentle pull that forces Jaskier quiet, unnatural but not unnerving. 

Orrott is most excited about the training room, fitted with a chalk floor as a substitute for outdoors. Bows, swords, spears, and everything in between are hung around the room. At first, Jaskier had thought the ceiling was simply nonexistent. But, on closer look, he can see the faint shimmer of glass - as clear as air - to let the shine of the afternoon sun in. 

The various rooms start to blur together to Jaskier, his arms are aching and he thinks he won’t be able to unclench his fists. Orrott sees this fairly quickly, directing Emeline to take him back to his room. 

“Actually,” Jaskier says, “I’d like to see more of the library.”

Which is how Jaskier ends up on a plush couch, hidden in a crock of the library, his bad leg stretched on the cushions. He’d taken the first book that caught his eye - a history of the Nilfgaaridians.

“Bard,” calls a voice. 

He glances up from the pages and in the candlelight, he has to think twice whether the figure before him is Mara or a ghost. She’s regained colour to her skin but still, she’s pale. 

“Sorceress,” Jaskier says, “you look better.” 

“Such a charmer. Lift your leg.” 

As Mara nears, her commanding voice leaving no room for argument, Jaskier can see clearly now how young the girl is. Barely more than nineteen, he’s sure of it, and yet her eyes hold wisdom that’s larger than her years. 

She sits where his leg once rested, placing a gentle hand on the splint to bring his leg down onto her lap. Mara’s hands are feather-light as they run up and down the limb. 

“It’s amazing you didn’t shatter the bone completely,” she says quietly.

“From what I hear, it wasn’t my fault,” Jaskier retorts. He winces as she presses too harshly on his delicate leg. 

“You don’t like magic?” 

Jaskier tilts his head, watching her hands carefully. “It hurt,” he says. “I have no problem with magic.” 

“I know when you lie, bard.” Mara wraps her slender fingers around his leg, squeezing it - uncaring of how he flinches and hisses in pain. Her eyes flutter closed and her breaths even out. “Keep talking,” she whispers. 

Jaskier glances between her hands and her relaxed face. Though he can’t feel anything, there’s almost a glow to her as magic flows from her hands into him. 

“Magic itself isn’t the problem,” Jaskier says. “It’s those who wield it. I’ve had some - _problems_ with them.” 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier almost flinches at that, a sour reminder of Geralt and his almost non-existent conversational skills. It was always the default response when he wanted nothing to do with whoever was speaking. But this is different - at least he thinks so. Mara wants to hear his voice, which already is a stark contrast to the Witcher, she simply needs to focus as well. 

Damn, he’s already so hooked on this place. 

“There was this sorceress and she - she was always quite, I guess, high and mighty. She took what she wanted, no matter what or who it was. Sometimes, I wondered if it was the immortality that made her so cruel or if she’s just always been a bitch.” 

From there, Jaskier starts to tune out what he’s saying and simply speaks whatever comes to mind. At any point, he’s ready for Mara to snap and tell him to shut up or for at least an eye roll. 

Nothing like that ever comes. 

Mara seems perfectly relaxed and, much to his surprise, she reacts to what he’s saying - a hint of a smile, the rise of her eyebrows, even a soft laugh. Her hands stay steady on his leg, her eyes closed and Jaskier is struck with the sudden realisation that _no one_ has ever listened like this. 

Not when he has nothing to give in return. Maybe a lover will withstand his endless chatter if they know how the night will end. And still, Mara is doing him a service. 

“Bard,” Mara says, snapping him from his thoughts. 

“Sorceress,” he replies instinctively. “Are you finished?” 

“Finished long ago.” 

“Why didn’t you stop me, then?” 

Mara shrugs, her hands moving to release his leg from the splint. “You have a nice voice. You must play for us, the famous Jaskier would be a performance to see.” 

Jaskier swings his legs over the side of the couch, warily testing Mara’s magic. There’s not even an ache to it - as if the bone was never broken. He stretches it, thankful not to have the pressure holding it still. As he stands, he looks over his shoulder to the sorceress, who looks quite pleased with herself. 

“I think it’s the least I could do,” he says. “Just name the time and place.” 

Mara smiles, joining his side. Now, she looks her age, a young girl proud of herself. “I can take you to the music room, give you some time to practice.” 

“You think I need it?” 

“You tell me.” 

—

Jaskier can’t sleep. Pacing the lengths of his room is no help, nor is lazily strumming at his lute. Nothing can scratch this itch that’s been lurking in the back of his mind for weeks now. Ever since Ave had stood by the fire, those short and sweet two months ago, and offered Jaskier a place in her court, the bard hasn’t been able to shake the thought. 

Living here, eating, laughing, and drinking with this court, however small, has given Jaskier’s broken heart the means to mend. And the means to overlook certain oddities. Such as the feeling that something is being hidden from him - and twice now he’s been locked in his room all night, prevented from leaving and seeing the others. 

The fact that he hasn’t seen an inch of this estate, beyond the wing he’s stored in, without Midas or her sister watching each move can be chalked up to Ave’s hesitation to let a complete stranger see the lengths of her home. 

Which is where the itch comes into play. Jaskier wants to change that, he wants a place here. It’s warm and safe, and he is loved. It is made abundantly clear that these people here want him. All Jaskier has wanted throughout his entire life was to be wanted, not for what he can give, and now he has it. 

He sighs, stopping dead in his tracks. He can’t deny himself this any longer. 

Jaskier is out the door, hurrying down the hallway as silently as he can. He passes Kele’s room, the door slightly ajar as always - she can never sleep in a completely dark room. And there, Mara’s room with the light peeking under the door - the girl can run on less than an hour of rest and still be as lively as ever. 

“Jaskier?” 

He turns, finding Esca - somewhere along the line he’d come to recognise the twins by the slight change of pitch in their voices. 

“I need to see Ave,” he says. 

Esca gives a knowing smile like she had waited for this for a long time. “Follow me.” 

Esca leads him for a passageway Jaskier had never been privy to. He had always assumed it was Ave’s personal suite, though he’d never had the courage to explore it without permission. 

She stops before a grand oak door, knocking on it firmly. After a brief pause, Ave’s voice floats through the door. 

“Come in.” 

Esca opens it for him, though she doesn't enter herself. Hesitantly, Jaskier steps forward, taking no more than five paces before the door is closed behind him. 

Ave sits up in her bed. Even adorned by furs and blankets, she seems imposing. Anyone else would mistake her for a queen - Jaskier has often wondered whether a throne was robbed from her. He hangs awkwardly between her bed and the door, eyes scanning furiously around the room. 

It’s almost an overexposure of wealth but it fits well with Ave. 

“Jaskier,” she says, her voice as confident as ever. He was to be expected, then, this night is only a surprise to him. “How can I help?” 

He takes a controlled breath, trying to calm his racing mind. “My answer is yes.” 

Those dark eyes bear into him, sparking with satisfaction. “I want to hear you say it.” 

“I will join your court.” 

“Perfect.” 

—

Jaskier doesn’t know what he expected but there was no shift in anyone’s behaviour now he has a permanent position here. 

At breakfast, the conversation is as lively as ever - a few glances in his direction with grinning faces. Orrott offers to take him to the music room, Ave has instructed him to wait there for her while she had other commitments.   
  
“You made us wait long enough,” Orrott says as they enter. He hangs by the door, letting Jaskier float around as he pleases. 

He finds himself drawn naturally to the more recent song written on the walls. _Her Sweet Kiss_. The words had come to him late one night, less than a week after his arrival. And like a madman, he scribbled the words before they could leave his mind. 

“I was waiting, myself,” Jaskier says. 

The story of the mountain and how the bard came to be in that forest is known to everyone in Ave’s court. Jaskier had never found a person - let alone a whole court - as easy to talk to, who’d sit and listen for however long he needs. 

There is no shame here. 

Orrott gives a gentle smile. “If… _he_ were to come for you, would you go?” 

“Not anymore.” Jaskier blinks, startled by the answer. “He missed his chance.” 

The Witcher owns nothing of him anymore. Strange, how a mere two months can change a person - like a snake shedding its skin, becoming anew. 

Orrott nods. There is nothing more to say. 

Ave arrives a few minutes later, dressed in a deep purple tunic and pants as black as her hair. She smiles at Orrott, dismissing him wordlessly, and joins Jaskier’s side. 

“It’s a beautiful song,” she says, her hand coming to rest on the small of his back. It’s a steadying weight there. “I’m glad you finally came around and took my offer.” 

“I still don’t understand why I’m so valuable.” 

“Good thing you’re sticking around, then, we have time to help with that.” 

“What did you want to discuss?” Jaskier says, diverting the conversation. 

Ave notices it but fortunately doesn’t speak of it. Instead, saying, “I have some… I guess you could say _conditions_ for those in my court.” 

With his heart speeding up a beat, Jaskier asks, “Such as?”

“Nothing too strict. And, please, before I say anything, know that this is for your and everyone’s safety.” 

“Okay, now I’m a bit worried.”

Ave gives something just short of a laugh. “There’s no need. Firstly, you may not leave the estate grounds without an escort, assigned by me.” 

“Is that why Midas follows me everywhere? Getting used to being my escort?” Jaskier takes a step backwards, getting a better look of Ave’s face. He can’t detect any maliciousness behind her words. He believes everything she says, he has no reason not to.

“She volunteered for that actually,” Ave says. “And yes. I have some enemies that would use whatever they can against me. Including my friends.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“Second condition, a curfew is set in place each night. Helps my soldiers know if there’s a real threat.” 

Jaskier nods. 

“Third, this wing is free for you all to roam but the rest of the estate will require an escort.”

“This doesn’t seem like anything new. Hasn’t it always been this way?”

“Well,” Ave says, “the rules were looser then but now, there is no excuse to not know.”

There’s a shift to her tone but it isn’t anger - simply a call to please. One that Jaskier desperately wants to answer. Ave has given him a second life and he wants nothing more than to repay her for all her kindness. 

“And lastly, once a month I hold a banquet, of sorts, and you will play a role in it,” Ave finishes. 

“You want me to play?” 

“Not exactly.” 

—

 _Not exactly_ didn’t give him many ideas of what was to come but certainly, none were this. 

The monthly banquet arrived much too quickly for Jaskier’s liking, as he grew more and more anxious about what his role was to be. Though, he finally figured out where everyone disappeared once a month. 

Orrott and Emeline gave their best tips of advice. Stand straight. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. Be proud. It passes by much quicker if you don’t think about it. All without saying what it is. 

Mara and Kele offered a much more soothing word of wisdom. There’s never-ending ale once it’s all over and they can all drink until they pass out. That is what Jaskier is looking forward to. 

Because now, standing on this raised platform by Emeline’s side, Jaskier is starting to wonder whether he made the right decision. With a fanciful outfit that is far too tight in certain places and his head growing weary from keeping his chin up, Jaskier along with the others surround Ave on either side. Before them, a party roars - food and drink and chatter all abundant. 

As for the show? The show is Jaskier, Orrott, Emeline, Mara, and Kele. The finest of their fields. And Ave’s personal collection. 

At least, those are the whispers Jaskier hears throughout the night. No one else seems bothered by the comments or they’re better at hiding it than Jaskier is. Ave, herself, looks rather smug sitting on top of her throne. Lords and Ladies don't have thrones and yet, every chair Ave is on becomes one with her mere presence alone. 

She is showing off her court, her belongings, and Jaskier can’t determine how he feels about being hers, being a part of this blatant display of power and wealth. 

He was said to be Geralt’s - _his_ bard - and his songs were always the Witcher’s. He belonged to someone who didn’t want him. But now, Ave wants him, she’s proud to have him, flaunting him like he’s a prized jewel. Like he is something of worth. 

It’s sad, really, how quickly time flies passed. Jaskier could stand there forever, getting drunk of the whispers and glances - growing happy and confident and loved with every passing moment. 

He overhears a woman, eyes half-lidded and cheeks rosy, comment to her partner that she wonders how it would be to bed them - all of them. Now, that’s an image Jaskier can’t get out of his head. Her partner says that he’s tried, Ave would have her hands if she touched what didn’t belong to her. 

Huh. He likes the sound of that. 

By the end of the night, Jaskier knows how he feels. After relishing in the lustful, jealous glances and realising that here, he is something to be desired, Jaskier will do anything to stay Ave’s bard. He will sing of her and the bastard Witcher will have no influence in his words - as if he never existed. 

The guests have all left and they all take a collective sigh, releasing the stoic expressions they’ve taken in favour of bright smiles. Everyone turns to Jaskier, waiting, expecting his approval. 

Jaskier’s eyes bounce over each of their faces - from Orrott’s sly smirk to Emeline’s bubbling grin. Like a wave crashing on the shore with a mighty roar, Jaskier knows that he is as addicted to this place, this family as he was to Geralt. But, this time, they are equally in love. 

“When’s the next one?” Jaskier asks. 

—

Funny enough, once a month means _once a month_. Yet, it does nothing to stop Jaskier from asking again and again. He’s craving that attention, the knowledge that for once he is unattainable, he is too good for everyone. 

Ave simply laughs at him. “Patience, songbird, I can’t let others enjoy you more than I do.”

 _Songbird_. A gentle pet name, a careful reminder of where he belongs - at her side, with her court. And the longer Jaskier stays here, the more he wishes he’d found this sooner. 

It’s been over a year since Ave brought him into her home, over a year since Jaskier discovered that, in fact, there is a place in this world where he does belong, and it feels as though barely a blink of an eye has passed. 

Everything has slid into place so neatly it’s hard to imagine it wasn’t always like this. That he and Mara never used to spend the late hours of the night discussing whichever book has taken their interest. That he wasn’t there with his voice to soothe Emeline and her speeding mind. Or that he and Orrott didn’t spend hours in the training room, a sword hilt fitting in his hand as comfortably as his lute. 

Or that he had never been graced with the effortless beauty that is Kele. 

“You’re staring again,” she says with a gentle smile, glancing down at him from her stool. 

Jaskier lays in the grass, lazily strumming a new tune on his lute. Next to him, Kele sits before an easel, paintbrush gliding over a canvas. The sunset over the tree line illuminates her tan skin, dark eyes like shimmering stones of obsidian. 

“Can you blame me?” Jaskier says. He’s never been able to hide his awe of the woman. Even more so at the pieces of art she creates. “You look heavenly in this lighting.” 

“I look heavenly in every lighting.” 

“Damn right you do. Where can I buy the confidence you have?” 

Kele sits back, putting the paintbrush between her teeth as she brings her hair to one side - even the smudges of paint on her skin are gorgeous. 

Taking the brush from her mouth, Kele looks to him. “I’ve tried giving it to you for free,” she says, “but you refuse it.” 

Jaskier closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see her gaze. “You’re not supposed to answer like that.”

“And when have I ever done what you wanted me to?” 

“Last night.”

Kele scoffs, reaching down and leaves a wipe of green on his cheek. Jaskier doesn’t make an attempt to move, blindly trying to smack her arm. He can almost hear her eye roll as she returns to her painting. 

“Have I ruined my chances for an encore tonight?” he asks, somewhere between a tease and a genuine question. 

“I already promised I’d leave you for Orrott.” 

Jaskier grins - like a schoolboy learning his crush likes him back. He’s not sure when but somewhere along the line, he no longer thought it strange that he shares a bed most nights than not. Never the same person for more than two nights in a row - though, they’re always sure to return eventually. 

“I like how you fight over me.” Jaskier chuckles. He’s been the object of affection before - or lust he should say - but never this long and with some many people. They worship him, adore him for simply existing as he is. 

It’s nothing he’s ever known before. 

And with his claws dug deeply into this family, Jaskier won’t let it go. 

Kele laughs, her voice brighter than the sunset she’s painting. “Mara thinks we’re all idiots.” 

“Mara only likes girls, though.” 

“Fair point. Alright, I’m finished.” 

Jaskier sits upright, his eyes landing on the canvas and if it weren’t for the easel behind it, he would’ve thought it was simply the horizon itself. 

He lets out a breath, just short of a gasp at the sight, the beauty and talent of the woman before him. 

“Gods, you’re incredible,” he says, voice scarcely above a whisper. 

Kele tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. “Let’s see what the others think.” 

They stand in unison. Kele puts away her supplies into a side bag slung over her shoulder while Jaskier takes the canvas, careful with it like delicate glass. 

Midas and Esca meet them from where they’d been standing guard. Silently, they fall behind the other pair as they make their way back inside the estate. 

Following the faint hum of laughter emitting from the music room, Jaskier and Kele find Orrott, Mara, Emeline, and, to the bard’s surprise, Ave. The Countess has been busy lately, unable to make as many appearances as she once had. And now, leaning against the wall as if she might fall, Ave looks tired, exhaustion worn into her smooth skin and she can hardly give a small smile as Jaskier walks in. 

“Good,” Ave says, in a blink, her features shift into her usual confident demeanour, “you’re here.” 

“Is something wrong?” Kele asks, taking a seat next to Emeline. 

Jaskier hangs in the threshold, eyes glued to his Lady with concern. There’s something terribly wrong and it sends spikes of anxiety through him. “Ave?” he says softly when she doesn’t answer. 

She sighs, her gaze darting over each of her court. “We’re having a banquet tonight,” she states simply. 

Jaskier shares a glance with Mara. 

“And?” the sorceress prompts. 

“And,” Ave continues, “we’ll be hosting a special guest. A mage.” 

Jaskier’s heart stumbles. What could a mage want with Ave? Why does she seem scared, nervous of them? After the battle of Sodden, Jaskier doubts there are many mages left powerful enough to strike fear into Ave’s heart. This can’t be good. 

Mara looks down, hands dropping to her lap. The self-taught mage has never encountered another of her kind. 

Without sparing a glance to their resident sorceress, Emeline - with a firm voice that hardly shadows a protective grumble - asks, “What do they want with us?” 

Ave says, “I’m not sure. She’s been making a ruckus in the lower town and now, has demanded an audience with me. She’ll arrive either way, at least with a banquet, I doubt she’ll do anything too bold.” 

Orrott stands, moving so he stands directly before Ave. His wide body practically hides her from view. “Who is this mage? Her name?” 

“No clue. She has none, as far as I’m aware.” 

“What are we to do?” Jaskier asks, moving across the room to rest a gentle hand on Mara’s shoulder. The girl relaxes immediately under it, a brief moment of peace from her insecurities. “Tonight, I mean.” 

Ave licks her lips, assessing her court carefully. Finally, she speaks, “Nothing for you, songbird. Mara, Orrott, I want you prepared for anything she may throw at us.” 

They’re dismissed and Jaskier spends the next three hours anxiously pacing his room, or shaking his leg as he sits before the fireplace, or checking and rechecking that his outfit looks perfect. Everything has to be perfect. Whoever this sorceress may be, he won’t be the one to show weakness. 

Midas is there to escort him from his room to the large dining hall across the estate. Her dark eyes are clouded in tight alarm and so Jaskier keeps his mouth shut as they walk as not to annoy her. 

He takes his place on the raised dial - no guests have arrived yet and he takes the moment to make sure everyone is as unnerved as he is. Ave is continuously brushing her fingers through her hair, making sure each strand is immaculate. 

The second the grand doors open, a servant announcing the arrival of the first guests, they all snap to attention. Ave sits with the arrogance of a pampered queen. Jaskier stands stiff and straight, hands behind his back. He can’t even bring himself to enjoy the lustful stares to him and his companions - his eyes scanning the room in search of this mage. 

As the night drags on, nothing unusual happens. The crowd drinks and eats and roars, while Ave’s court remains stoic as ever. 

But just as Jaskier begins to think that no appearance will be made, the doors are thrown open. Like a clap of thunder, they hit the wall, and like a strike of lighting, it silences everything else. 

All eyes are forced onto the sorceress as she storms into the hall. 

The breath is stolen from Jaskier’s lungs, his whole body as taut as a bowstring, and a simple arch of her eyebrow as she looks at him could shatter him completely. 

Jaskier will never forget those eyes, not when they’ve brought even the strongest of men to their knees. That deep purple like a scar in his memory. 

Yennefer walls forward, bathing in the attention she’s gaining. Her gaze settles on Jaskier and not even a flicker of recognition passes by her eyes. Instead, she looks to Ave, taking in the Countess as a predator to its prey. 

Jaskier can see from the corner of his eye how Orrott and Mara tense as Yennefer nears. 

“Lovely for you to join us,” Ave says, voice slick with poison. 

Yennefer stops just short of the raised platform, her black dress shimmering like the stars of a night sky. Beauty to outmatch Ave, even Kele, and she knows it. 

Hasn’t she ruined enough, taken what he desired most from Jaskier’s life? 

“I wish I could say the same,” Yennefer says. “But I’m here for something and I don’t intend to leave without it.” 

Orrott’s hand shifts to the hilt of his sword - a special precaution taken for tonight. 

Jaskier knows better than to underestimate the sorceress and deep down, he knows no one here stands a chance against her. He only prays it doesn’t come down to that, that Yennefer will, for the first time, stand down. 

Ave crosses her legs, unbothered by the thinly veiled threat. “Yes, as I’ve heard. My mage will go nowhere with you.” 

Mara _flinches_ at the words, as do all the others, unable to contain themselves. _That_ is what Yennefer wants? To take Mara for herself. And Ave knew about it but withhold that information from her own court. 

But with the rising fear that’s starting to overcome Jaskier, he knows what Ave did was best for them. If he - if Mara - had to stand here all night knowing of Yennefer’s plan, he might’ve collapsed from the sheer panic. 

“She deserves to be with her own kind,” Yennefer counters. “Not on display.” 

Jaskier swears her gaze darts to him. 

“She’s here by choice. She doesn’t want to go with you,” Ave says. 

“Is that so? Let’s hear it from her, then.” 

“I can speak for her.” 

“I insist.” 

“ _No_.” 

It all happens in a blink. Yennefer’s hands clench at her side, Mara follows the action, Orrott unsheathes his blade - and Jaskier is moving before his thoughts can catch up. 

Jaskier throws himself between Yennefer and his court, his back to his family and eyes pleading with the sorceress silently. Yennefer almost smirks at him. Impressed, maybe. 

“Yennefer,” he says softly, unsure what he wants from this.

“Jaskier.” Her voice is light, casual as if there isn’t a wall of tension so thick it could kill them both if it broke. 

“Don’t do this,” he begs. “Please.” 

“Why not?” 

“She won’t go with you. You can’t force her.” 

Yennefer glances behind him to where Ave and Mara stand. Jaskier is praying to every god listening that she won’t attack - though she could easily kill everyone here and take Mara as her prize. 

_For the love of all things holy_ , he thinks, _don't take her as well_. 

“Where’s Geralt?” Yennefer asks, spitting his name like acid in her mouth. “How does he feel about his bard being put on show like some cheap whore?” 

It takes all of his control not to flinch, not to let it show how deeply that comment has cut him. He hadn’t thought of Geralt in months, some long, peaceful months. Jaskier doesn’t let himself give a jab back, unwilling to give the witch the satisfaction. 

“Leave, Yennefer,” he says through clenched teeth. “This won’t end well.” 

What he would give to know what’s going through her mind but he’s left utterly clueless as Yennefer turns on her heel and stalks back through the door. 

Jaskier doesn’t dare breath, his body tense as he turns back to face his Lady - finding unveiled fury in her emerald eyes. 

—

He sits before the dying fire, unable to find the energy to stock it as he strums Ave’s favourite song on his lute. 

It only took a snarl from her for all the banquet quests to scurry away and when it was turned on Jaskier, Ave’s voice as sharp as daggers, he all but ran - tail between his legs. He hasn’t left his room since, unsure whether he’s allowed and he simply doesn’t want to see that look of disgust on Ave’s face again. 

If Jaskier had known it was Yennefer coming, then maybe he could have done more to stop her from disrespecting Ave so horribly. And in front of that crowd? She’ll be dealing with the outfall, the power struggle for a while. 

Jaskier sighs deeply, trying to figure out how he can fix this as he places his lute on the ground, his leg stretching out to rest on the chair opposite him. It still aches, a constant reminder of what he owes to Ave. 

Leave it to Yennefer to ruin everything. Again. 

“Jaskier.” 

He startles, leaping to his feet. It seems his words have summoned the devil herself, as stepping out from a portal, Yennefer appears in his room. 

“The _fuck_ are you doing?” he snaps. Gods, if Ave saw this… he can’t imagine betraying her like this. 

Yennefer looks around the room, almost bored as she wanders closer to Jaskier. “I wanted to talk.” 

“Bullshit.” 

She smirks. “I know it’s hard to believe but it’s the truth. You didn’t answer me before when I asked whether Geralt knows you’re here.” 

Eyes narrowed at her, Jaskier sits back down, putting his leg up again. “He doesn’t,” he answers. “Why do you care, anyway?” 

Yennefer stalks closer, placing a hand onto the back of his chair. With a gentle flick of her wrist, the fire roars to life, too hot and too bright for a moment before it calms down. The sorceress looks tired at the simple spell like it took too much effort. 

_Interesting_ , Jaskier thinks. 

“I was surprised to see you not attached to his hip,” Yennefer says. “Or at least, desperately wanting to be.” 

“You say that as if you weren’t in love with him, either.” 

Yennefer quirks an eyebrow at the admission - one that Jaskier has scarcely told himself. But she says nothing of it, not denying or admitting her feelings for the Witcher. 

She takes his leg into her hold, lifting it so she can sit down but doesn’t allow him to retract it - instead she lowers it into her lap. Jaskier tenses at the odd softness to this interaction. Yennefer’s hands begin to float just above his leg, hovering over where the bone had broken. 

“This mage isn’t a very good one,” she says lightly, eyes closing in concentration. “It still hurts, doesn’t it?” 

Jaskier doesn’t linger on how she knew of his injury, jumping to protectiveness. “Mara is very skilled.”

“Anyone decent in healing could’ve fixed the break without any lingering pain. Which begs the question, why didn’t she?” 

Jaskier goes to bring his leg down but her hands snap down on it, a warmth emitting from them and as her eyes whip open, he feels the undeniable tug of magic. The ache fades instantly, like there was never a wound. 

“What are you getting at?” Jaskier asks, pulling his leg from her hold. 

Yennefer regards him with an unreadable glare. “Nothing. What happened between you two?” 

Two meaning Geralt. Jaskier shifts in his seat. “Can’t we just say we’re both the scorned lovers of Geralt of Rivia and leave it at that.” 

She gives him a knowing smile and says, “Let’s.” 

“Yennefer, why are you here?” he asks. The sooner he knows that, the sooner he can get her to leave. His heart trembles at the idea of Ave catching the mage here. 

“The sorceress - Mara, was it? - should be somewhere she can learn to harness her chaos. Not lounging around here letting her talents go to waste.” As she speaks, Yennefer crosses her legs, hands gripping the arms of the chair. Like a barely controlled storm. 

“And you think you’re the one to teach her?” Jaskier scoffs. “She’d never go with you.”

“So I’m learning,” she forces out. “The continent needs more powerful mages after Sodden.”

“Are you not one of them?” Jaskier teases, putting the pieces together - her flat eyes, weariness paling her skin after the easiest spells. 

With a gaze that could kill anyone else, Yennefer says, “I will be, again, given some time. But in the meanwhile, Mara needs to be taught to harness her chaos.” 

Oh, Jaskier is an idiot for even thinking this but his mouth will always work faster than his mind. “Then teach her here, don't take her away. Stay with us.” 

Another unreadable gaze. Somewhere between surprised, touched, and annoyed. 

“Why are _you_ here, Jaskier?”

He refuses to flinch again under her bluntness. He doesn’t know why he’s stayed here, answered her questions rather than find Midas or Esca, or _anyone_ to deal with the sorceress. Why is he just sitting here? Listening to her?

“This is my home,” he says. Why does he keep playing her game?

“Is that what you believe? What did these people give you that you couldn’t find elsewhere?”

 _Family. Love. Self-esteem_. Instead, he says, “Since when have you cared about what I do?” 

“Since when did you let yourself be whored out?” 

“Call me a whore one more time.” 

“Or what?” A dare, a provocation. 

There’s a beat of silence - Jaskier bites his tongue to stop himself from reacting, it’ll only encourage her. Yennefer looks at him, ready for the bite, an excuse to attack. 

He should’ve known this is all she really wanted. Maybe for a second, Jaskier was starting to think she was genuinely curious about his life but he knows her better than that. Knows the evil witch and the bard will never get along. 

“Jaskier - ” he almost flinches at how soft her voice has become - “what does she have on you?” 

Taken aback, he asks, “What?” 

“What could be so bad you let yourself be used like this?” Yennefer leans forward, lowering her voice as if they might be overheard. 

“I - I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I can help,” she pushes. “Whatever our differences, I’ll help you get out of here.” 

Jaskier gets to his feet, practically throwing himself away from her. “You think Ave’s blackmailing me?” 

“This all seems wrong. _You_ seem wrong, Jas - ”

“Don’t act like you know me.” 

“This woman is hiding something, I know it.” 

Jaskier’s heart is racing, his body almost shaking with the tense anger at the mere suggestion that Ave isn’t who she says she is. The woman that saved him, gave him a home and a family, would never lie to him or her court. 

“I’m sorry but the first time we met, you’d enslaved half a town for some massive orgy,” Jaskier hisses, gripping the back of the chair so tight it could break. “You can’t cast judgments whether I’m here by free will or not.” 

“Awfully defensive, aren’t you?” Yennefer stands, moving so they are face to face. 

“It’s time for you to leave,” he bites out. 

“Jaskier - ”

“Stop. Just… get out, leave Mara alone. If anyone else catches you, they won’t be as merciful as me.” 

Yennefer blinks - a steel wall shooting up behind her eyes that he hadn’t noticed was down. 

Jaskier can’t figure out what her aim in this was but it doesn’t matter. 

“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t try.” With that, Yennefer moves into the center of the room, her hand outstretched. Even facing away from him, Jaskier can see the gleam of sweat at the exertion it takes to open a portal. 

She leaves without a glance to him, thrusting Jaskier into an unsettling silence with only the beats of his heart to remind himself this is real. 

He’s frozen in shock. Too many thoughts battling for dominance in his brain - Yennefer, her words, what Ave’s reaction will be. Because he will tell her, in fact, he’s already moving as if there wasn’t even a choice. 

Jaskier pretends that he can’t feel the difference in his leg, there was no pressure taken away. Mara fixed him the best she could. 

Opening the door, he finds the hallway deadly still. Not even the faint sound of soldiers footsteps can be heard. There’s no one here. No one to watch him. 

Should he even go, then? It’s drilled into his psyche that he shouldn’t go anywhere away from this wing of the estate without an escort. He can’t disobey Ave so gravelly after tonight’s incident but she needs to know who was in her home. Who she needs to look out for. What the sorceress said. 

With his heart pounding like a drum, Jaskier takes the tentative steps for Ave’s personal bedchamber. Every door he passes is shut tight, even Kele’s, not even a light under Mara’s door shines through. 

Jaskier fears a sharp enough breath could alert the estate to his actions. He hasn’t known of a punishment if Ave’s rules are broken but he’s terrified to find out. Ave might kick him and his ungrateful ass out, back to the forest where he should’ve died. But keeping this from her would be worse. 

So, Jaskier doesn’t stop until he reaches Ave’s room, his hand trembling as it comes to knock on the wood. An agonising few heartbeats later, the door is whipped open and he’s met with the quiet fury of his Lady’s eyes. 

She sucks in a breath. “What?” Ave hisses and oh gods, he shouldn’t be here. Should’ve waited till morning. 

“I - uh, I - I’m sorry but there’s something you need to know.” 

Ave keeps her face blank, though, her eyes betray her. “Yes?” 

Fuck, she’s pissed. Jaskier is so dead. 

“Yennefer - ”

“The witch.” 

“ - the witch, she visited me, barely a minute ago. I think - I _know_ she’s dangerous and she has something against you.” 

“She was here? In my home?” Ave asks, her voice tight and sharp. 

“Yes, she - she portaled and I tried to make her leave, I tried - I swear - ”

Ave holds up a hand, silencing him. She blinks. “Thank you for the warning. Return to your room.” 

Ave closes the door on his face. And Jaskier is on the brink of tears. 

—

Jaskier doesn’t go to the next banquet, or the next and his absence was sorely missed. 

By the third month, he returns and has learned better. 

Yennefer hasn’t shown her face since. 

—

By his fourth year of living in Ave’s estate, Jaskier doesn’t remember ever being without this family he’s gained - he doesn’t _want_ to remember. There’s no need, with no unwelcome people showing up to upheave his past. 

Not that he will ever need it but Orrott began giving Jaskier lessons in sword fighting, a bow, a spear, anything he can think of. Much to everyone’s surprise, Jaskier picks it up rather quickly. He’s fast, light on his feet like a fight is a dance - and he hasn’t felt such a rush since the first time he found how many he could captivate with only his voice. The adrenaline rush he gets when he and Orrott spare in the training room, gods, when he manages to convince Midas to train with him? 

Nothing can beat that joyfulness, the pride in her eyes the first time Jaskier got her on the ground. 

Jaskier floats around the estate, soaking up everything that is given to him, learning and collecting whatever he can. Giving meaning to his life. Meaning he’d searched desperately for decades to find. 

He once feared he’d die a heartbroken man - now, he knows he’ll die a happy one. 

—

Geralt will die a lonely man - Witcher - whatever he is. 

He comes to realise this one cold night, watching Ciri’s face in her slumber. She is only bound to him due to destiny and one day, she will die and leave him with no one. Geralt will pass on with no one left to mourn him. He had thought, if only for the briefest moment, that maybe Yennefer might be the only one around that may care. 

He was sure to ruin that. 

Running a hand through his hair, Geralt shakes away any memories of her. Dwelling on the past will only guarantee that Ciri will be the one to bury him - she is the only person that matters right now. His child of surprise. And he needs to be focused to protect her. 

The morning sun is beginning to peek through the blinds of the inn window and Geralt knows they should be moving on. It draws too much attention if they linger in any one place but Ciri always looks more peaceful when sleeping than awake. So he let her sleep longer, his own body weary from exhaustion. 

It’s sad - or funny, once he becomes delirious - how often he finds himself deprived of proper sleep and every time, he can hear that stupid bard’s voice in his head. Voice raised in offence. 

Geralt needs a nap. 

But whenever his thoughts linger on the lost bard for too long, he knows better than to let himself sleep. Knowing that his dreams will offer no safe haven, only showing, again and again, every mistake and misstep he took with Jaskier. 

The memory that haunts him most is the image of Jaskier’s face, just moments before he left for good - the utter heartbreak clear for all to see. Geralt wishes the bard bothered to hide his emotions like the Witcher, it would’ve saved him almost half a decade of guilt and shame if he never had to see that face. 

He can’t dwell on this any longer, Ciri begins to stir. She blinks awake slowly, frowning when she notices him sitting on the floor by the bed. He had slipped off during the night as he doesn’t know when the next time she’ll have a proper bed again. 

Before she can say anything on it, Geralt asks, “Are you hungry?” 

In response, her stomach growls. Ciri chuckles, prompting Geralt to smile back - he can’t help it. Her smiles are so few in between these days. 

“Get dressed, I’ll get breakfast.” 

“You better hurry,” she says. 

Ciri bolts from the bed, promises of food is the best encouragement for her. Geralt gives one last grin as she closes herself in the bathroom before heading downstairs. He’s fortunate to have Ciri with him, her effortless charm making the workers kinder than they would be to Geralt. He collects multiple plates piled with food before heading back upstairs. 

Geralt finds Ciri waiting impatiently on the bed, her bright eyes burning brighter at the sight. 

He’s scarcely put the plates down when she’s already diving in, eating as though she hasn’t in weeks. 

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asks, a bread roll half in her mouth. 

“Thought you’d bite off my hand if I tried,” Geralt says. 

Ciri rolls her eyes, holding out an apple for him. He takes it, afraid she’d throw it at him - wouldn’t be the first time she’s done it. 

—

The forest path stretches for miles before them and Geralt only vaguely knows where they’re going. It doesn’t matter much, as long as they keep moving Geralt would accept anywhere. 

With Ciri on Roach’s back, Geralt walks beside them, indulging her in lessons about the various monsters he’s encountered. 

“Where did we leave off?” he asks. 

“You were trying to convince me wererats are real.” 

“They _are_.” 

Ciri scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“Would you like me to prove it to you?” Geralt says. “I’ll cut off one of their ugly little heads to show you.” 

She kicks him in the side and he makes a point to move just an inch from her reach when she tries again. 

“What other imaginary monsters do you have?” Ciri asks, her lips curled in a small smile. 

“Don’t come crying to me when you fall into a nest of them.” 

Ciri laughs, the sound like seeing the sun after years of storms. It’s strange, really, how this one girl has lightened Geralt’s heart tenfold. After all these years, he couldn’t help but open himself further - he rationalises it as she needs it. Ciri needs a caring figure. 

With what little information Geralt knows about raising children, he quickly learned that his impenetrable mask needed to be dropped. Not even destiny can keep an unhappy teenager where they need to be. 

“I won’t be crying,” Ciri says matter-of-factly. “Because they don’t exist.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Geralt lets his mouth wander, quizzing his lion cub on everything from wraiths to selkiemores. From the moment he brought up training her with the knowledge of a Witcher, Ciri has been eager. 

And her devotion shows when she notices the slightest shift of Geralt’s face - a smell in the air snatching his attention. 

Lilac and power. 

Geralt stops dead in his tracks. 

“What is it?” Ciri asks, voice low and deadly serious. 

He peers into the trees surrounding them, searching for that painfully familiar scent until, as last, the purple-eyed mage reveals herself from beneath a glamour. 

“Yennefer,” he breathes. 

She takes a step forward away from the tree line, eyes darting between the Witcher and Ciri, face unreadable as ever. 

Ciri glances to Geralt at the mention of the sorceress’ name - even though she had known of their relationship, this is the first time they’ve met. 

Yennefer says, bored, “Witcher.”

Flashes of the mountain come back to him, the disgust on her face, her retreating back, his non-existent heart-shattering. 

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks. 

How long has it been? He’d seen her once since the battle of Sodden, overcome with relief that she was alive while she’d been exasperated. Almost magicless but still unwilling to accept help. She left again before Ciri could see her. 

“He means,” Ciri interrupts, uncaring of Geralt’s sudden sharp breath, “it’s lovely to see you again.” 

Yennefer’s gaze softens as she looks to Ciri. “Hello, lion cub.” 

“Hello, Yennefer.” 

Steeling herself again, Yenn drags her attention back to Geralt. “I live here.” 

“In the woods?” Geralt says. 

“Yes, I live amongst the dirt and trees.” She sneers - bitter in a way Geralt was hoping would have lessened. “I have a cottage. The princess and her strange power tripped my sensors and I came to investigate.”

For a moment, Geralt thought she had sensed him. 

“But,” Yennefer continues, “since there’s nothing here.” 

“Wait,” he cries before she can disappear again. She looks at him, expectedly, but he hasn't gotten further than that. “I - we - can we stay with you? Just for the night, so Ciri can be safe.”

Maybe it was too cruel to mention the girl, Yennefer’s want for a child too strong to deny his request. She sighs, arm stretching to her side as a portal opens. It shows a small cottage, cozy for just one, and Ciri is quick to head through. 

“Thank you,” the girl says softly, earning a smile from the mage. 

Geralt passes through, repeating the phrase but only getting a glare in response. 

The clearing he ends in is vast, the sun shining directly on it. On top of Roach, Ciri is nearing the cottage. In a fluid motion, she dismounts, leading Roach closer to the house before inviting herself in. 

“I like her,” Yennefer says. 

Geralt hadn’t noticed her join his side, casting a quick glance. “How could you not?” 

Yennefer gives something that could be either a laugh or a scoff - and Geralt realises it’s now or never. 

He stops just far away enough from the home so that Ciri can’t eavesdrop as he knows she loves to do. Yennefer, begrudgingly, follows suit, knowing what’s to come. 

“Yennefer, I’m deeply sorry - ” she rolls her eyes - “I should never have made that wish. And I have no right asking anything of you but please, forgive me. I barely managed these years knowing you - ”

Yenn holds up her hand, stopping Geralt in his rambling and he couldn’t thank her enough. His mouth snaps shut. 

Her eyes dance over him, mulling over a thought he’ll never be privy to. 

“Have you spoken to your bard recently?” she asks. 

“Jaskier? What’s he got to do with anything?” 

“Answer the question.” 

Geralt sighs. “No. It’s - it’s been a few years.” He hates himself for admitting to that. A few years is enough time to look for him - a bard isn’t as hard to find as a mage. And yet, he never did. 

“I know where he is,” Yennefer states, her face flashes in something briefly. Sorrow? Guilt? “I think he’s in trouble.” 

His heart drops. “What do you mean? Where is he?” 

“It’s a long story but a few years ago, I found him. And he wasn’t… he wasn’t _right_. I don’t know what but it was all wrong.”

There’s genuine worry in her eyes that sends daggers of fear through Geralt. He knows Yennefer and Jaskier never got along but when she was once apathetic about the bard, she’s deeply unsettled by whatever she saw. 

“Where is he?” Geralt demands. 

“I can portal you there but not tonight.”

“Yenn, if - ”

“He’ll survive another night. But it’s more complicated than rescuing a damsel in distress. We can talk more later, for now, Ciri is waiting.”

Yennefer stalks forward without another word, leaving Geralt no choice but to follow her into her home. 

—

Geralt has been racked with anxiety all day but at no point did Yenn decide to relieve him. Not until Ciri had long fallen asleep in Yennefer’s room, and the mage and Witcher sat in candlelight in the dining room. 

“What do you mean by _wrong_?” Geralt asks again. 

“Fuck, I don’t know. You knew the bard better than I did, it’ll be obvious when you see it.”

“Who took him?” 

“Some Earl’s widow - it doesn’t matter. But listen to me, don’t believe a word he says, it’s all regurgitated lies.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Yennefer sighs deeply. “Exactly what I said. He - he’s not himself.”

“Wait? Like he’s been brainwashed?”

Geralt’s heart skips a beat at that idea, at his bard being unrecognisable to him anymore, like someone he no longer knows. And he can’t help but settle into the knowledge that it’s all his fault - he pushed Jaskier away and right into the hands of someone who’s morphed him into her own work. 

And Yennefer of all people is the one alerting him to this. 

“Something like that,” she says. “It’s not magic, I know that much. But there is a mage there, not very powerful though.” 

Geralt nods, storing away every piece of information Yennefer gives him - no matter how big or how small. He does his best to hold himself steady throughout it all. 

On one hand, he’s overwhelmed with the solace that his bard - vibrant eyes and silky voice and all - is still alive. But on the other hand, his Jaskier is no longer _his_. If what Yennefer says is true then Geralt has a bigger task than simply finding Jaskier, he must break him out from whatever control this mysterious Countess has over him. 

“You should sleep, Witcher, you’ll need your wits about you tomorrow,” she says. 

Yennefer stands and begins to move away. On instinct, Geralt’s hand shoots out, taking hold of hers. Perhaps he will not die a lonely Witcher. 

She doesn’t flinch nor does she return the grip. Staring down at him coldly, Yenn says, “Don’t mistake this for forgiveness, Witcher.”

“Then what is it?” he finds himself asking. 

She hesitates. “Jaskier doesn’t deserve this fate. I’m doing this for him, not you.”

Geralt doesn’t know what’s come over him, maybe he’s spent too long with Ciri, but his emotions have risen too far to push down again. 

“I don’t know how to reach him. I - I said awful things to him, he must hate me,” Geralt says softly. 

Yennefer regards him with a cold stare. “I know.”

“How do I convince him to follow me?” 

“Get on your knees and _beg_. Stay there until he deems you worthy enough for his attention. Grovel until you can’t breathe.”

—

He slips into bed next to Ciri. She’s still mostly asleep as she rolls over and curls into his side. Geralt wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. 

While he’s upset he’ll be leaving her come morning, he’s more anxious about his lion cub meeting his bard. 

—

Yennefer portals him just outside the lower town. Coincidentally, a ghoul needed taking care of and Geralt takes the job without question. Ghouls aren’t particularly hard to deal with and he returns shortly after to collect his coin - except he asks for his payment to be information. 

The man who hired him gives him a quick once over. “What do you want to know, Witcher?” 

“What do you know of Lady Ave?” 

The man smiles, fondly remembering something about her that only cuts Geralt’s patience more. 

“She - ha, well, she’s something else. Some doubt she’s even human but I reckon she’s just an arrogant bitch,” the man says, happy to tuck away the pouch of money. 

“I’ve heard of her… collection. ” The word tastes like poison in his mouth.

The man chuckles. “Yeah, it’s - well, it’s Ave.” 

Geralt stands up straighter. “You’ve seen it - them?” 

“Once.” 

“Where? I need to know,” Geralt growls. 

To his credit, the man only flinches slightly. His voice comes out rushed, hinting at the fear brewing inside. “E-every month, she - uh, she holds a banquet.” 

“When?” 

“T-tonight, I think. But you can’t get in without an invite,” the man says. 

Geralt turns on his heel, stalking away with a snarl. He reckons his swords are inviting enough and not even this Ave can deny a Witcher entrance. 

He’s wasted enough time here. 

And he can only waste more time until evening comes. Geralt gets directions for Ave’s estate, the building unmistakable with dazzling lights and the swell of music growing as he marches up the front path. 

There’s only one guard at the door, barely bothering to check invitations before waving the guests in. 

Which makes this a lot easier.

Geralt hands the guard the invitation he stole from some noblewoman and if the man realises this, he does nothing to stop the Witcher from entering. 

He follows the hum of chatter and finds that his heart is racing faster and faster as he nears. A mixture of fear for what’s become of Jaskier and the repressed guilt he’s kept all these years rising to the surface. Would Jaskier even let Geralt help him? 

Geralt lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to stay calm. Even with Jaskier being able to draw the most emotions out from him, Geralt could pretend as though he couldn’t. He needs that now. That stoic mask. 

The Witcher enters the banquet room and feels the weight of every pair of eyes landing onto him. But he doesn’t spare an inch of attention to care. 

Golden eyes settle on heavenly blue ones, like precious gemstones trapped in a human form. They could’ve gone to the coast, Geralt remembers, seen blues that could never rival the one here. 

They should’ve gone to the coast. 

Because, while Jaskier’s glorious eyes are breathtaking as ever, they’re cold, empty - not even shards of resentment shine through. 

And Geralt is frozen in place, halfway in, halfway out. He swallows harshly, finding his voice has betrayed him. 

Jaskier is _there_ , on display like Yenn has said. His clothes are too revealing and tight in all the places that send roars of jealousy through Geralt. These people have no right to see Jaskier like this. 

Those around Jaskier, clothed in the tightest dresses and suits, give Geralt glares sharp enough to kill. Amongst them sits the infamous Lady Ave, flaunting herself without a care in the world. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” she says, voice slick with toxic honey. Unsurprised. “I wondered when we’d meet.”

“Here I am.” Geralt forced himself to keep his gaze away from his bard, growing sick to his stomach with every second he spends here. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“You have something of mine, I want it back.”

“Is that so?” Ave tilts her head, her eyes glancing around Geralt to the silent crowd. 

It’s a show of power, he realises, to prove her worth. She doesn’t care if this causes a scene, beating back a Witcher will give her an unimaginable reputation. 

This is when Geralt would expect Jaskier to step forward, pick a side, to say _anything_. But he doesn’t. The bard’s as still as a statue, mouth firmly closed and adamantly not looking to Geralt. 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be collecting my bard and we don’t have to see each other again,” Geralt says. 

He looks to the others Ave has on display, a man almost his size glowers at him. Geralt could take him, no question, but he searches for the mage. Whilst Yenn hadn’t been afraid of her power, Geralt needs to be wary of her. 

“As much as I would love to get rid of you,” Ave answers slowly, “no one will be leaving with you.” 

Knowing he won’t win against the Lady, Geralt forces out a small, “Jaskier, ple - ”

“Don’t speak to him,” she snaps. “You have no right showing up here, making demands like I owe you anything.” 

Geralt grunts. “He can speak for himself.” 

Something in her gaze shifts, a smug grin growing as she says, “You’re right. Songbird, come forward.” 

Even more disgusting than the pet name she has for him is the fact that Jaskier obeys without hesitation. A perfectly trained follower. He takes Ave’s side at her undeserved throne, lazily draping himself over the armrest of the chair. And Geralt scarcely manages to fight back the burning anger at the sight of Ave placing a possessive hand on his inner thigh. 

With her eyes glaring at the Witcher, she says, “My dear, do you have anything to say to our guest?”

“No, my Lady,” Jaskier answers, voice monotone and lifeless, “I have nothing.”

Oh, gods, Jaskier is in deep. His face is almost bored, like he couldn’t care less about the shards of Geralt's heart threatening to break skin if he takes anymore blows. Perhaps that could make the bard care, to see what his absence has done to him. 

“Jaskier, if we could just talk in private, I - ”

“He said no,” a voice from the crowd hisses. 

“Fuck off, Witcher,” cries another, rising the yells and boos of the people surrounding him. 

Geralt finds himself looking to Jaskier, expecting the fierce protective nature of the bard to beat whatever brainwashing has occurred. He’d grown so used to that behaviour, when some commoner spits an insult in Geralt’s way, more often than not he’d have to drag Jaskier away from them. 

But here, Jaskier doesn’t so much as blink. He doesn’t care what is said to his Witcher. And somehow that breaks Geralt's heart more than anything else in his life has. 

“Jaskier?” he says softly. Hoping, begging to any being that is listening to intervene. 

“Butcher,” someone spits. 

“Freak.” 

“No one wants you here.” 

“Piss off.” 

The fragile reputation Jaskier had built for him is being torn apart and the bard is doing _nothing_. 

Maybe Geralt was too late. Maybe his bard is too far gone, too far for Geralt to bring him back. Even so, it’s the Witcher’s fault. He pushed Jaskier away and into the greedy hands of this Countess. 

Then, like the heaven opening and giving Geralt one blessed miracle, Jaskier leans down and whispers something in Ave’s ear. They share a brief exchange, Ave’s face flashes in annoyance. 

But she raises a hand and the entire crowd falls silent. A queen without a crown, without a real kingdom and yet, it does nothing to stop the people from acting like it. 

“Geralt of Rivia - ” the way she stresses his name makes him uncomfortable - “whatever you’ve heard of my court, I hope you’d give me the opportunity to convince you of my honesty.” 

A murmur passes through the crowd. 

Geralt’s eyes latch onto Jaskier’s, searching desperately for any information. “What do you have in mind?” 

“Stay here a while,” Ave says. “Live in my court, let go of your prejudices, endorse me.” 

He doesn’t trust a single word she says, no matter how much she’s trying to convince him. And he never will. “I accept.” 

—

Geralt is escorted to a room by twin soldiers and told to stay there until morning. He doesn’t. 

His footsteps are silent against the carpet floor. His swords were taken from him so now, he creeps forward with a lone dagger tucked into his waistband - just in case, he told himself. 

He prays it won’t come to that. 

There’s an overwhelming amount of smells in this place, all overlapping and contrasting. But he hones down on what he picked up earlier - Jaskier’s distinct scent. The familiarity of grass after rain or a fresh hot meal after days of hunger. Though, there’s something new about him. Like swirling perfumes, something sickly sweet. Something that is wholly Ave and her influence. 

Nevertheless, Geralt follows it until he reaches a bed chamber. He doesn’t bother to knock, barging in like he owns the place. 

He finds a rather uninterested Jaskier, half-dressed with his chest exposed who merely glances up at Geralt’s entrance. 

“Do you always have to be so dramatic?” Jaskier groans. “Just once, can you be normal?” 

“Can we talk?” Geralt asks, letting the door close behind him. 

“Do I have a choice?” There’s no bite to his tone but he acts like Geralt is no more than a mild annoyance. 

Jaskier moves about the room, uncaring of the Witcher standing dumbfounded. 

Geralt finally takes the bard in, in his entirety, the lightness of his feet as he steps, the definition of his muscles, his face seeming as if it had never twisted into that bone-chilling look of grief. This is someone new - a stranger. 

“You’re not supposed to be here, you know?” Jaskier says, settling into an armchair by a dying fire. 

“Neither are you.” Geralt follows him, taking the twin seat. 

Jaskier chuckles dryly. “Yennefer sent you, didn’t she?” When Geralt says nothing he continues. “Thought so. What did she say?” 

“Nothing that has been proven wrong.” 

“Yet. You’ve been here a few hours, Geralt, at least give us a few days.” 

“Hmm.”

“What are you hoping to find here?” 

Up close, with the light of the fire, Geralt is close to losing himself in Jaskier’s eyes. There’s something not right with them, like a haze that has settled over top. A wall, keeping the Witcher from reaching him. 

“Answers,” Geralt says bluntly. He can’t tell where Jaskier ends and Ave begins, their words and tones almost identical. Frank but coated in a honey-sweet layer to hide the venomous meaning. “Why do you stay here?” 

He scoffs. “Where else can I go? I have everything I could ever hope for here.” 

“Yes but - ”

“But I’m not with you and that makes you upset,” Jaskier finishes for him, his lips curling in a hint of a smile. 

“Jaskier, please.” What is he begging for? The bard is right. 

“You don’t like that for the first time in over twenty years I’m not coming to your beck and call. Finally, the bard has denied the White Wolf and it hurts your precious ego. Am I wrong?” 

_No, not in the slightest_. “That’s not fair.” 

“Geralt, please, I’m not angry.” 

Taken aback, Geralt sits up straighter. “You’re not?” 

“Gods, no. It’s been years, Geralt,” Jaskier says, “I’m not some scorned lover still pining over you.” 

“No, of course not, that’s not - I wouldn’t - ” he sighs - “fuck.” 

“I know.” 

There’s a beat of silence, where neither man can find the right thing to say. Geralt watches Jaskier, every involuntary twitch, every blink, trying to push past the overly sweet scent in a vain attempt to find exactly where he lost the bard - where does he stop and this new person starts. Is there anything left of the man he knew?

“I’m sure you have many questions,” Jaskier says, “and I’ll answer them, I promise. Just not tonight.”

“Wait, Jaskier.” 

But he’s standing anyway and Geralt can’t resist the urge to follow him, like a pup trailing after its parent, desperate for love and attention. And the Witcher wonders if this is how Jaskier felt for all those years. Following a man never able to express himself when he himself was always wearing his heart on his sleeve. 

“Not tonight,” he repeats. “Come on.” 

In a trance, Geralt does. Jaskier - still shirtless and leaving Geralt breathless - leads him from the room and into the hallway where the twin soldiers are waiting for them. 

“See?” Jaskier says to them. “I told you he’d be here.” 

“Yeah, Esca,” one guard says to her sister, “he told you.” 

“Shut up both of you.” 

Geralt’s eyes bounce between the three of them. He hates this, he absolutely _hates_ this - Jaskier shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be laughing with these soldiers like they’re childhood friends. He should be leaving with Geralt. Neither of them should be here. 

Just as the Witcher starts to bring his hand to where his dagger lays, eyeing the weak spots of the soldiers’ armour, Jaskier wraps his hand - calloused like Geralt’s - around his bicep and pulls him away. Their footsteps line up as the bard marches Geralt away. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Jaskier hisses, the twins following at a respectable distance. “You either leave here tonight, alone, or you can stay and play nice.” 

“Jaskier - ”

“Leave your room again and I won’t be able to help you.” 

“Stay with me,” Geralt rushes out before his mind can remind him to shut up. It’s the truth - he wants to be with Jaskier always from now until they leave this weird place. 

Jaskier glances at him, the first real emotion he’s shown all night. “I wish I could but I’m afraid I have business elsewhere.” 

—

Geralt stays in the room all night if only to refrain from making Jaskier regret vouching for him. But it seems Geralt is the one regretting it when the bard walks into Geralt’s room the next morning and reeks of sex. 

The Witcher had barely slept, waiting for someone to come to slit his throat, and perked up when Jaskier neared. 

He opens the door, a new shirt on and hair ruffled, and says, “Come on, time to meet everyone.” 

Geralt follows obediently. Jaskier is silent as he leads the Witcher, taking twists and turns without thought. Geralt memorises every hallway, if he needs to leave in a rush getting lost would cause his death. 

Jaskier takes him to a room that is thick with that sweet scent and dozens of other smells that Geralt can’t be bothered deciphering. In the middle of the room sits a dining table with five people situated around it, Ave at the head and her loyal followers surrounding her. 

The bard takes a seat without a word, staring greedily at the plate of food already waiting for him. 

“Geralt, please,” Ave says, her murderous eyes glancing over him, “sit, eat with us.” 

With everyone except Jaskier watching him, Geralt sits at the other head of the table, face to face with the Lady. The Witcher finds himself looking to Jaskier throughout the meal but the bard never meets his gaze. 

Instead, Jaskier pulls one of the women into conversation - a girl with fire for hair and the unmistakable scent of a witch. She sends glares to Geralt occasionally, as do the others, but humors Jaskier in not making a scene. 

It gives Geralt the time to take in the people here, the ones that were on display last night. There are no threats here - well except for one. 

The Lady Ave keeps her face smooth of any emotions, acting as though she’s engaged with the conversation but Geralt knows better. Knows she’s assessing him as much as he’s assessing her. 

It’s taken a moment but the distinct smell of Jaskier floats down from - from _her_. There’s a glint in her green eyes as if she can tell he’s noticed. His stomach twists into a knot, so tight he might throw up at the mere thought, at the power she wields over the bard. 

Predatory in a way even a monster like himself can understand. 

Ave smirks. She knows. And he knows she’ll try to kill him if he ever acts on it. 

Geralt looks at his meal, trying to figure out how to get his bard around from this hell. 

—

Jaskier takes him to the training room late that afternoon. Geralt relaxes at the sight of his swords hanging gently with a wide collection of weapons that adorn the walls. 

“What is this?” he questions, watching the bard as he inspects the multitude of blades. 

“Everyone else is busy today and I’m getting restless,” Jaskier explains. He takes both of Geralt’s swords before handing the steel one to him. “Steel for humans.” He winks. 

Silver for monsters goes without saying. 

Geralt almost flinches. He would linger longer on the fact that Jaskier of all people just called him a monster if it weren’t for said bard lunging at Geralt with all his might. 

He scarcely has the piece of mind to block the blow. 

“That was… strong,” Geralt says, earning a cocky grin from Jaskier. 

“Surprised looks good on you.” Jaskier throws another hit and another and another. Moving with such grace that Geralt is almost too stunned to react. 

The last time Geralt checked, Jaskier relied mostly on his fists - and sometimes his lute - when in need to defend himself. Countless bar fights have proven as much. But this Jaskier is as graceful with a blade as he is music. 

Geralt holds his strength back, finding himself relishing in Jaskier’s arrogant face as they fight. His feet have gained agility Geralt has longed for - light as they dance on the ground, seeming as if he is floating above rather than actually touching it. 

For this moment Geralt lets himself forget his purpose here, lets himself pretend that the sweetness of Jaskier has faded and focuses himself wholly onto right now. It’s relaxing, he rarely gets a sparring opponent. And one that isn’t afraid to hold back - when did Jaskier get so strong? 

Geralt blocks a blow that brings them almost face to face, Jaskier’s hot breath on his skin sending shivers down his spine. A bead of sweat drips down the bard’s forehead and there’s a gentle fire growing in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. 

He can’t bring himself to look away from the ocean of Jaskier’s eyes, wanting nothing more than to drown in them. 

Jaskier licks his lips. “Weren’t expecting that, were you?” 

“No, but I like it.” Why did he say that? 

“Good. You may like this place after all, then.” 

In a few solid movements, Jaskier’s sword goes flying across the room and he’s been spun around, back pressed hard against Geralt’s chest, blade to his throat. 

Jaskier gives a breathy laugh, barely even squirming in Geralt’s hold. 

“I wouldn’t be so confident,” Geralt growls into the bard’s ear. “I’m only here as long as I need to be.”

“Right, your need to be a hero.” 

Geralt releases him, giving an unwarranted shove. Jaskier takes it in stride, collecting the sword before turning back to Geralt. 

“What encouraged you to pick up a sword?” Geralt asks, diverting the conversation. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Why not learn everything I can?”

“And yet, whenever I offered to teach you, you refused. Said it was more fun to watch.”

The bard laughs at the memory, the lightness in his face outshines the morning sun. “Yes, well,” he starts, sounding almost embarrassed, “watching you fight monsters fueled my songs. And since I no longer need that inspiration, I thought it time to learn.”

“You don’t play anymore?”

“No, of course, I do, but I have other muses in my life now.” 

Geralt lunges forward - pretending that there was no spark of jealousy in his chest. Jaskier blocks it with a smirk, pushing back with equal force. Geralt stumbles - he _stumbles_ over his own feet, he blames it on being distracted. He’ll wipe that smug grin from Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier notices the Witcher’s apprehension and arrogantly asks, “Is that a problem for you?” 

_All of this is a problem._ “Of course not.” 

“I’m sensing a big _but_.” 

“You can’t deny that it’s strange, alright? How she just _parades_ you around like a - ” 

“Like a whore?” Jaskier guesses, something behind his eyes hardening. 

“What? No, Jaskier, I would never - never say that” 

“Hmm. Well, tell your witch to do the same.” 

“Why not tell her yourself?” 

The silver blade swings for his head, forcing Geralt to duck to avoid it. He’d barely blinked in the time Jaskier had moved. Gods, Geralt wishes he’d been the one to train the bard. He can imagine it now - their shirtless bodies dancing together, sweat dripping down his chest, cheeks flushed like - 

“Fuck, that would be a sight, huh?” Jaskier chuckles. “Though, I reckon it might kill Ave to see the witch in her home again.” 

Shaking away the lingering thoughts, Geralt clarifies, “I meant, we go see her.” 

“I’m not leaving, Geralt.”

“It can’t hurt. Only a few days, gives you and Yennefer plenty of time to kill each other.” 

“I don’t understand why you and that witch are so obsessed with my being here,” Jaskier says, twirling the blade in his hand. 

“I want to be sure you’re safe,” Geralt answers, eyeing the bard as he begins to circle him - cocky and smug and _attractive_. His heart skips a beat. “Is that so bad?” 

“Well, you never seemed to care before.” 

Jaskier lunges for Geralt’s back, giving the Witcher scarcely a breath to duck and twist, bringing his own sword to block the blow. The bard steps back, continuing his path around. 

Geralt adjusts his grip on the hilt of his blade. “I always cared.”

He has to force himself to focus on Jaskier’s words rather than his actions - close to losing himself in the entrancing nature of the bard. Geralt can’t tell whether he loves or loathes this new version of Jaskier. 

“Really? You sure had a way of showing it.” 

Another blow. Geralt blocks it. 

“I know and I’m sorry,” Geralt says softly. 

Jaskier stumbles, his demeanour shifting in a blink. He stares at Geralt, mouth hanging ajar. After a long heartbeat, finally he all but whispers, “I never thought you’d say that.” 

Seeing his opportunity, Geralt pushes further. He follows Yennefer’s advice. “I said horrible things to you, not just on the mountain but ever since we’ve met. And there’s nothing I can say to make up for it.” 

And _there_ , like a glimpse of the sun during a storm, Jaskier looks to Geralt with clearer eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, the Witcher leans forward, waiting on edge. 

“Jaskier,” calls a voice. 

Both their heads whip around to the sound. Jaskier tenses as a man comes into view, muscles to rival Geralt’s own and grey eyes like hard stone are wary as they glare at the Witcher. 

“Orrott,” Jaskier answers, a little too quickly. “You're back early.” 

“The game’s been scared off by your friend here,” the man - Orrott - says. He notes Geralt’s tightening grip on his sword. 

“Can we help you with anything?” Geralt forces out, uncaring of how much bite comes out. 

Orrott barely spares him a glance, keeping his attention on the bard. “Ave wants to see you.” 

Jaskier nods, averting his eyes from either of the men. He takes a deep breath and before Geralt’s very eyes, a wall passes over Jaskier again. He passes the steel sword to Geralt and marches from the room silently. 

Geralt makes a move to follow him but Orrott’s hand on his chest stops him dead in his tracks. 

“Weapons don’t leave the room,” Orrott says, as disgusted to be touching a Witcher as Geralt is to be touched. 

By the time Geralt places his sword back and inches past Orrott, Jaskier is long gone. 

—

“You said he wouldn’t apologise but he did.” 

“He’s manipulating you. Saying what you want to hear so you’ll go with him, exactly like I said.” 

“But… why? I don’t understand what he wants.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself with understanding monsters.” 

“Don’t call him a monster.” 

“Don’t use that _tone_ with me.” 

“I’m sorry. I just - I - I don’t want him here, anymore. Please.” 

“The Witcher will be gone by morning if that’s what you want, songbird.” 

“Thank you, my Lady.” 

Ave closes the gap between them, pushing hard against his lips. Her hands, rough and demanding, pull him to her. Jaskier gives what he has because that’s all that he can do. 

— 

Suspicion takes control of Geralt, like a tug in his chest guiding him where he needs to be. For someone of such high stature - or one who thinks they have high stature - Ave doesn’t seem to have many guards roaming her halls. Not that the Witcher minds, it makes his task much easier. 

He follows his instinct, coming to realises he’s been tracking that same sweet smell that’s been overbearing since he arrived. Geralt doubts, as he enters the kitchen, that he needed to find his weapons before this. The empty room is dim but his eyes adjust instantly. Geralt closes the door silently behind him, taking careful steps further inside. 

When no sound warns him of any danger, Geralt gets to work. 

He searches every inch of the room, tearing open the draws and cupboards for the source of the smell. Until he comes across a pouch, hidden at the very back of a draw, with a fine grey powder inside. Geralt could throw up at the intense aroma. 

Every suspicion in Geralt’s mind solidifies in this moment - the daunting truth fills him with a mix of satisfaction and worry. 

Jaskier’s been drugged.

That’s clear but until he knows exactly what this powder is, Geralt can’t know the full effects it’s had on the bard. It’s how Ave’s been controlling him, Geralt realises, it’s why his bard is so unrecognisable. It all slides into place - as does Geralt’s plan. 

Leaving the kitchen he’s met with a woman, one of Ave’s collection - Emma? Emily? Gods, who cares. Her honey eyes are wide as she can only stare at the angered Witcher. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says, not even bothering to hide her fear. “What were you doing?” 

“None of your business,” he growls. 

“I have to tell Ave.” 

“Fucking do it.” What he’d give to slice that woman down. 

The woman - he never bothered to learn names - turns on her heel and sprints away. Geralt knows he should stop her before she can alert the entire estate to his doings but he doesn’t care. There are more important things. 

He tucks the pouch away into his belt and marches directly for the training room, collecting his swords. He has to get Jaskier _now_. 

The hilts of his swords are a comforting weight. He gives them a twirl, letting the sharpness of the blades be seen by the figure lurking in the shadows. They don’t seem to realise Geralt can see them and can hear their rushing heartbeat. 

The figure charges without warning - a sword aimed to tear open Geralt’s back. It’s too easy to match the strike. He pushes back, putting distance between them. 

Orrott stands before him, a murderous glint in his eyes. Geralt remembers him, has already figured his strengths and weaknesses by observing him these few days. Anyway, a mortal is nothing against a Witcher. 

“Witcher,” he says, as if in greeting. “It’ll be a pleasure to add you to my collection.” 

“Shut up.” 

Geralt lunges, his swords twirling with effortless grace. Much to his surprise, Orrott swipes one sword away and dodges the other with agility few mortals possess. He grunts his annoyance. 

Orrott cocks an eyebrow, mocking him silently. 

Metal clangs against metal, the Witcher finding this human more of a match than originally thought. But no matter. Geralt pushes forward, never relenting until Orrott ends with his back against the wall. 

There’s a rattle of something metallic as he hits the wall. Orrott sees Geralt’s interest peak, a dark kind of smugness growing in his eyes. 

He reaches up to his collar, pulling out two medallions from under his shirt. A wave of fury washes over Geralt at the sight of the wolves engraved on them. 

“Like them?” Orrott asks. 

“How?” Geralt forces out. How could his brothers be slain by this man? One mentally enslaved no less. 

“When a plague hits, a cure follows shortly.” 

Like that, something in Geralt snaps. Maybe distantly a part of him registered how Orrott was less sweet than everyone else here - more sour like a rotting corpse - or maybe, he simply didn’t care anymore. 

Whatever he is, whoever is controlling him, he doesn’t stand a chance against the raw fury that became Geralt. 

Orrott’s head had barely tumbled to the ground before Geralt had spun back around, stalking away in search of his bard. 

—

Jaskier climbs into bed knowing that when he wakes up, their Witcher problem will be no more. He’s no sad, per se, but it feels weird to imagine that such a weighty presence from his life will be permanently removed. Though, he can’t blame anyone other than the Witcher. 

_He_ was the one to turn up to someone else’s home and make demands. 

_He_ was the one to insult the Lady’s honour. 

_He_ ruined everything. 

And so, Jaskier goes to bed without the Witcher’s influence hanging over him like a black sun. Even though in these last few years, Jaskier hadn’t spared much thought about him but still, it would be nice to never have to worry something like this might happen again. 

It doesn’t matter how the deed is done. 

Jaskier’s eyes slip closed and he lets the sweet grips of slumber take him. 

It seems as soon as he drifts off, a hand is clamped over his mouth and primal fear takes off. Jaskier tries to bolt up but the pressure is enough to keep him down. He doesn’t scream, taking a few deep breaths as his mind adjusts to what he sees. 

The Witcher hovers over him, golden eyes void of anything emotion as all good monsters should be. Jaskier only gets a glance at the blood coating him and his heart flutters at the thought of who was sent to dispose of the Witcher. 

-

“Don’t make a sound, got it?” he hisses. 

Geralt’s mind is racing with millions of thoughts but the loudest one is screaming Jaskier’s name. He had wished for a more clean exit but barging into the bard’s room will have to do. 

-

Jaskier gives the slightest nod, coming to terms quickly with the idea that he will take on a Witcher if it comes down to that. 

The Witcher slowly brings back his hand, letting Jaskier sit up. The steel sword is bloodied and still dripping on the fine carpet. 

“Ave tried to have me killed,” the Witcher states. 

“I know.” Jaskier does his best to keep his voice steady, unwilling to show an ounce of fear. 

The Witcher - the emotionless, dead inside _monster_ \- flinches at Jaskier’s words, and with a wave of sudden smugness, the bard presses further. 

-

 _No, no, no, no, this can’t be real_. Geralt must’ve heard wrong. Did he really scar Jaskier so bad the Witcher’s death would truly not faze him? 

-

“Who do you think gave the order?” Jaskier sneers. 

It earns him the butt of the Witcher’s sword to his temple. And he falls swiftly into oblivion.

—

Geralt sits near the stream, washing away the blood of the Witcher hunter sent to kill him and ignores the gentle breaths of the bard behind him. 

He turns to Jaskier, head hanging weakly against his chest and hands tied behind his back - Geralt doesn’t trust him not to run. 

Jaskier’s blue eyes flutter for a moment as he takes in his surroundings. As soon as they lay onto Geralt, they narrow, filling back with cold hatred as they did before. 

“Typical,” Jaskier mutters - maybe Geralt hit him too hard -, “you just take what you want. You never care about anyone but yourself.” 

“Hmm,” is all he gives Jaskier. He’s too preoccupied with checking the bard over for injuries, afraid he’d hurt him after throwing Jaskier over his shoulder and gunning it through the surrounding woods like a madman until he couldn’t breathe. 

“They’ll find me, you know,” the bard continues. It’s nice to know that no time apart can stifle his tongue. “You won’t get away next time.” 

“There won’t be a next time.” 

“You don’t know them.” 

“Neither do you,” Geralt spits. His patience has worn thin and if Jaskier is so far gone to order Geralt’s execution, then there’s no time for trying to sugarcoat anything. “That bitch has been lying to you.” 

Jaskier lunges - like a wild animal in a frenzy. 

Fortunately, Geralt is a genius of foresight and the bonds that are holding the bard’s wrist are also attached to the tree behind him. 

Geralt swears he hears a faint crack of wood. 

After a moment to cool off, Jaskier all but growls, “Don’t call her that.” 

Geralt realises his hand had reached for his sword on instinct. Disgusted with himself for even thinking of that, Geralt takes a few tentative steps closer, settling before Jaskier. 

Comfort and gentleness have never been his strong suit - hell, they’re the farthest thing from Geralt’s multitude of strengths. It was always Jaskier’s role. _Always_. But now, with a rabid dog mode than a bard, sitting here, Geralt struggles to find the right way to say this. 

“It’s what she is,” Geralt says. He reaches for a pouch he’d secured to his belt moments before the Witcher hunter had cornered him and throws it onto the ground. “A lying bitch who’s been drugging you for years.” 

“You’re lying,” is all Jaskier can say. 

“You know it, deep down, it makes sense, Jaskier,” Geralt says. “It tears down your defences, makes you more pliable. So Ave can control you, all of you.” 

“Why would she need to? We’re already loyal to her.” 

“Because you have no choice, Jaskier. She’s bought your loyalty with lies.” 

Jaskier relaxes in his restraints, like the fight leaving his body as he looks anywhere other than Geralt. They’re both silent for a long while, Geralt letting the bard process it all, holding his breath as if he may break this fragile image. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath, looking at Geralt with half-lidded eyes. “You get a kick out of this, don't you?” 

“What?” 

“This,” he repeats. “Having me be nothing more than your little lap dog. Always there for you to call on, always there when you need someone to pick on.” 

Geralt sucks in a breath. “That’s not true,” he protests, though there’s little energy behind it.   
“Jaskier, please believe me - ”

“Give me one reason. You threw me aside like dirt and never cared once. You’re only here because you hate the idea of me finally being happy without you. You sick bastard.” 

“Jask - ”

“You knew, didn’t you? You had to have known how I felt,” the bard continues, his voice as sharp as a sword. There’s pure, unbridled fury on his face that seems so foreign. “And you lead me on for fucking decades. I know that means nothing to you, Witcher, but you stole those years from me. You _never cared_.” 

Geralt can only sit back and listen as Jaskier throws every insult and action in the Witcher’s face. And he deserves it. He never did show how much he cared - never knew how but didn’t understand what he was doing to the poor bard. 

“You hate that I’ve found somewhere I’m actually valuable and _wanted_. You can’t possibly imagine that anyone could ever care about me like that.” 

No, there aren’t tears threatening to brim. And no, his heart isn’t being torn to shreds with every word. There’s no crushing weight of guilt on the verge of eating him alive. 

Eventually, though, the fierce fight drains from the bard as the night unfolds and Jaskier can’t wrestle with sleep any longer - giving Geralt much needed silence. 

Geralt knows he’s right, he recognises with every vile word Jaskier throws at him, the sickly sweet scent grows evermore. But he can’t tell where the drug’s influence stops and Jaskier’s real feelings start. 

What if it was Ave keeping him passive and now, he’s finally saying what he thinks? Geralt can’t force Jaskier to go with him if he despises him. But he also can’t let Jaskier go back with the burden of knowing the bard will never have free will again. 

Geralt sighs. Yennefer gave him a week before she’d come to the lower town and collect him - with or without Jaskier, she made that clear. There’s still time to get Jaskier the help he needs. He doesn’t doubt Ave will send her men after the pair and he needs to put as much distance between them and the Lady. 

He settles in for the night, watching Jaskier carefully. 

—

As Geralt and Jaskier enter the nearest town - the bard with his hands tied behind his and the Witcher hiding that fact with a large cloak he lifted - Geralt wonders whether he should’ve taken Jaskier’s lute as they fled. He hadn’t spared a thought to the instrument but maybe it would stop the insistent glare he’s been receiving. 

“Say anything to anyone and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Geralt mutters in Jaskier’s ear. For the first time, he’s relieved to find that the town’s citizens are too afraid to pay the Witcher any mind. 

“No, you won’t.” Jaskier’s eyes scan the market they’re passing through. “You would’ve done that years ago.”

“Hmm.” The bard’s not wrong. “But I’ll flay anyone you speak to.”

That shuts him up, biting his tongue to physically stop himself from saying anything at all. Geralt doesn’t gain any pleasure from threatening Jaskier, he never did but he’ll do whatever is necessary to help him. 

Geralt finds the local inn, orders a room, and escorts Jaskier upstairs, away from the public’s eye. After being unceremoniously thrown onto the bed, Jaskier sees an opening and tries to make a run for it. Like grabbing the scruff of a kitten, Geralt takes hold of his shirt and tosses the bard back. 

“Don’t make me tie you up.” Geralt adds more quietly, “You’d probably like that.” 

“I don’t know how you think this will end but you’re wrong.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, he’s been hearing this for hours now and it has lost its effect. But still, Jaskier continues to hammer the point. 

“They’ll kill you,” the bard says, grimly. “And I’ll watch. I’ll fucking watch as Orrott finds out whether there truly is a heart your chest.” 

“He’s dead,” is all Geralt says. 

Jaskier freezes, breath caught in his throat. “You killed him,” he whispers. Not a question, a statement. 

“I had to. I know you don’t care about my life right now.” 

He’s silent for a moment, his face blank but Geralt can hear his racing heart. Gods, Geralt shouldn’t have said anything. 

Jaskier leaps to his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs, “ _Monster_. You’re a beast, a - a murderer.” 

Even without the use of his arms, Jaskier does all he can to fight. His voice breaks as he cries and in a blink, the pure grief takes over the rage and Geralt is able to sit him back onto the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says gently. 

“Stop _lying_ to me,” the bard hisses. “You enjoyed it, I know you did.” 

“He - he wasn’t who you thought he was. He was something different.” 

“I know. He had to be better in order to kill those Witchers.” 

Geralt really shouldn’t be this surprised anymore but the last few days have given him whiplash. He stares down at Jaskier, breathless in disbelief. He’s almost afraid of this new bard, of what he’s become. 

Jaskier finishes, “There are no secrets with Ave. Can you understand that? What being a family means?”

“Hmm.” Geralt ignores the bard’s words, sinking back into that emotionless state he’d grown comfortable in before Jaskier had entered his life. Geralt lifts him for a moment, stripping the bed sheet off. He rips it in half, takes off the rope bindings, and easily overpowers the bard’s struggling to tie one wrist to each bedpost. 

“I can’t believe how much I’d spent trying to convince people you’re not the monster they think you to be. But look at you now,” Jaskier continues. 

“Hmm.” Geralt checks the restraints. They should hold. He crosses the room, back to the door. 

“You’re disgusting. A mon - ”

The slamming of the door silences Jaskier’s words. 

A weight is lifted from Geralt’s shoulders and he takes the moment to breathe, to process his next move. If that mage is any good, she’ll be tracking them this very second. And Geralt can’t go any further with Jaskier fighting him at every point. 

So, Geralt checks that the pouch is still secure on his belt and prays this town has anyone to help him. He pays the innkeeper extra to ignore any complaints of yelling or odd noises coming from the room. 

For the first time in his miserable life, luck is on his side and, after asking about for hours, Geralt learns of an alchemist living on the outskirts of town. A hermit by all means but Geralt’s only hope. He doesn’t bother to hide his incoming, making himself clear for the alchemist to see. 

He comes across a small rotting log cabin, windows boarded and no visible light to be seen from inside. Geralt goes to take the steps onto the porch but notices how thin the planks are and so, steps over them completely. If he weren’t in such a rush, he might care that the whole building seems to be falling apart and maybe the hermit no longer lives here - or lives at all. 

Still, Geralt knocks on the door, doing his best not to smash through the thin wood and waits. There’s no movement inside, not even the light scatter of rats. After a moment of waiting, Geralt gives up and pushes open the door. It creaks loudly and the floorboards barely withstand his weight. 

His eyes scan the room - littered with discarded books and objects - in search of anything that could help him. Whether a breathing human exists here or not, Geralt won’t be leaving until he has what he needs. 

He eases inside, alert to any sounds as he explores each room. A kitchen, full of rotting food and bugs. A bedroom, unused for months at the least. A bathroom that Geralt doesn’t bother entering. And just as he was about to give up hunting for this alchemist, the softest groan of wood demands his attention. 

Geralt’s eyes drift to the floor. The dark wood seems natural but Geralt crouches, running a finger along a floor word his gut tells him to. There’s something not right. 

And so, acting on pure instinct, Geralt unsheathes one sword and thrusts the blade down. It slips effortlessly into a seam in the floor. Geralt pushes out and, with a puff of dust and a moan, a hatch opens. 

A hermit, indeed. 

His eyes adjust to the stark darkness quickly and he finds a ladder. Wasting no time, Geralt climbs down, still holding his sword - just in case. 

There’s an overbearing flurry of smells as he descends - potions and chemicals abundant down here. He ends up in an expanding hallway, the only light sources from the hatch above him and wavering candlelight at the end of the corridor. 

Geralt swaps his sword for the silver one, bracing himself as he takes a tentative step after tentative step. As he nears, a soft hum emits from the open room - a woman’s smooth voice. He rounds the corner, tightening his grip on his blade. 

With her back to him, the woman says, “You’re very desperate, aren’t you?” She’s hunched over a desk, books surrounding her and a brewing stand before her. Her voice is light, uncaring of the Witcher standing in her home. 

There’s no point lying to such a person. “More than you know.” 

The woman stands, stretching her arms above her. She moves about the room as if Geralt is her last priority. Mumbling to herself, she fishes through a container of dried herbs. Once satisfied, she returns to the desk and sprinkles it into the large vial in the brewing stand. 

Another day and Geralt might have been interested in what she was attempting to do. But today is a day of quickness. 

“Will you help me?” he asks. “I’ll pay you graciously.” 

“You know,” she says, a pinch to her tone telling Geralt she is wiser than himself - or thinks she is, “most people would see upstairs and be deterred.” 

“I’m not most people.” 

“No, they can take a hint. But I suppose I can make an exception. What do you need?” 

Geralt takes the pouch and drops it on the desk next to her, noting it strange she never turns to look at him. 

She takes it with dark slender fingers, undoing it and lifts it to her nose. The woman’s silent for a moment before pouring the grey powder into her hand. 

“Where did you get this?” she asks. 

“Does it matter?” Geralt retorts. “Do you know what it is?” 

“It has many names and many strands.” 

He forces out each word, “What is it?” 

She sighs. “I know it as Nether, it’s a nasty dissociative. Is that all?” 

Geralt clenches his jaw, just once he wishes everyone could be cooperative. “Is there a cure for its effects?” 

The woman stands once again, her voice grim as she says, “What’s it to you, Witcher? Why have you come to me?” 

She turns, finally giving Geralt a full view of her face. Her face is soft and round, lips in a thin line, and where her eyes should lay are almond-shaped holes. 

He doesn’t let his shock show. “My friend needs help,” he says. “I’m trying to atone for past mistakes. Please, you’re my only hope.” 

The woman - though eyeless - seems to stare into what remains of Geralt’s soul, judging whatever she sees. He prays she only sees the truth, the love he’s coming to terms with that he has for the bard, the need to apologise to the real Jaskier. 

This may be Geralt’s last chance. 

The alchemist doesn’t speak of what she thinks but moves for the large shelf, exploring almost a dozen draws before pulling out a small capsule of translucent liquid. 

“How long was the drug in use?” she questions. 

“Uh - I - I’m not sure. A few years, maybe more.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she mutters. “When was the last dose?”

Geralt groans. “Barely a day, I think. Why? What does it matter?” 

“It matters, Witcher,” she hisses, “if he’s gone into withdrawal, no amount of the cure will keep him alive.” 

Geralt already regrets the words about to leave his mouth. “Will he make it?”

The woman gives the vial to Geralt, who handles it like the most fragile glass. 

“Give your friend the whole thing, just to be sure. I’d leave now if I were you. Another day and it’ll be too late.”

“W-what do I owe you?” 

She licks her lips, arguing with herself for a moment. Eventually, she says, “Nothing. If your friend has been under Nether for as long as you say, it would be cruel to ask for payment.”

“Can I have your name?” 

“Rezia.” She smiles at him softly. 

“Geralt,” he replies. 

“I mean this in the nicest way possible but please, fuck off Geralt.”

He can’t help the small twitch of his mouth. The Witcher turns on his heel and makes his way for Jaskier.

—

Geralt finds Jaskier attempting to chew through the bedsheets holding him. It’s rather humorous, despite the situation. The bard eyes him as he enters, trying to gather as much dignity as he can - pretending that he isn’t tied up but simply relaxing on the bed. 

“Drink this,” Geralt says, pushing a tankard to Jaskier’s face. 

He turns away, clenching his jaw closed. 

“Don’t be a child.” Geralt rolls his eyes. “Despite what you think, the last thing I want right now is you keening over from dehydration.” 

Jaskier doesn’t budge and so Geralt does the only thing he can’t think of. He pushes the tankard against the bard’s lips, pinches his nose closed and waits until Jaskier can’t hold his breath anymore and his mouth opens. With no other choice, Jaskier gulps down the water infused with the Nether cure. 

Once Geralt is satisfied and the water is dripping down Jaskier’s chin, he retracts the tankard - settling on the edge of the bed. 

Jaskier eyes him suspiciously, obviously waiting for some kind of poison to take hold. 

“What was in - ” 

He screams. A gut-wrenching cry that rattles Geralt’s bones. It could rival Ciri’s destructive voice, making the Witcher feel as though he is hollow, that the sound alone is disintegrating his insides. 

“Jaskier?” he says, voice thick with frenzied panic. “Jaskier, what - can you - _what’s wrong_?”

The bard can’t speak, his limbs lashing out as if he’s trying to fight off an invisible foe. His muscles pull in all directions and, breathless and tear-stained cheeks, he manages to force out through clenched teeth, “Make it stop, _please_.” 

“Fuck, I - I don’t know how. I’m sorry, Jaskier, fuck, I’m sorry,” Geralt chokes on the words, his uselessness drowning him.

Jaskier gives another earth-shattering scream, a pain like no other ravaging his whole body. And Geralt can only watch. He can’t do anything to stop it and the desperation in the bard’s voice is worse than anything imaginable. 

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier draws the word out, his voice abandoning him as his throat is torn apart. “It - fuck, it burns. Help me, please.”

Geralt can’t. He _can’t_ do anything - he forced this to happen, he did this to Jaskier and he can’t make it stop. Oh, gods, he’s going to kill the bard. This is his demise and Geralt is a pointless bystander. 

Jaskier falls silent. 

His body goes slack, his chest heaving for air. It’s rather unnerving, Geralt thinks, that in a blank the pain seems to leave Jaskier. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks softly. “Are you okay?”

Those brilliant eyes, tired and glassy, slowly land onto the Witcher. He breathes a sigh of relief. 

Jaskier’s mouth hangs open in a frozen scream, eyes rolling back into his head to become purely white. His body pulls taut, clenching so hard Geralt thinks his veins might burst, and - as Geralt’s heart is already racing in fear - the bard begins to convulse. His head bashes against the headboard. 

A violent thrashing thing takes over. He pulls at the restraints so harshly that the sheets tear with a great _rip_. Now, Jaskier’s seizing body slips down in the body, tangling himself in the remains of the sheet. 

Geralt’s hovering hands can’t figure out what to do. Jaskier’s skin has turned a sickly yellow and shows no signs of tiring. The Witcher’s mind is a dizzying storm of _fuckfuckfuckfuck, I’ve killed him, I killed Jaskier_ and a lone whisper of reason supplying him with what little logic he still has. Geralt turns Jaskier onto his side - the last thing he needs is the bard choking on his own vomit. 

After a brutal, agonising three minutes and thirty-four seconds - Geralt counted - Jaskier’s body seems to give up. Going limp like a puppet cut from its strings, Jaskier falls unconscious, shirt drenched in sweat and vomit, and a dark patch on his pants the Geralt won’t look too closely at. 

“Jaskier?” he says softly, brushing the strands of hair back that had fallen over his eyes. They remain closed tightly. If it weren’t for his laboured breaths, Geralt would assume he’s gone. 

There’s no response. And there isn’t one after the first hour. Or the second. 

By the third hour, Geralt can’t stand the stench of piss anymore. Damn Jaskier’s dignity. The Witcher finds the inn’s laundress, pays her graciously and returns to a still unconscious bard stripped, covered with Geralt’s own shirt. 

Geralt sighs. “Fuck.” 

He lays the back of his hand onto Jaskier’s forehead as Ciri once did to him - an infected wound turned the girl into a mother hen. 

Geralt finds the bard’s skin is burning, a fever ravishing his body. At first, the Witcher wasn’t worried. This isn’t the first time he’s dealt with a feverish Jaskier - once he’d fallen ill during their time together. Geralt was faced with the fragile mortality of his companion. 

( _“Aw, Geralt, relax. A mere flu isn’t enough to take me down,” the bard exclaimed, still bedridden and pale._

_“Hmm.”_

_“You‘re big softie, you know that right?”_ ) 

Ignoring that memory and stopping himself from wondering how his bard could change so dramatically from that exchange, Geralt sets off to work. 

The bathroom isn’t a grand one but it will do. He fills the tub with water as cold as it will go. Geralt moves back to Jaskier, scooping the bard into his arms. He seems lighter now, fragile as shivers rack his body. Jaskier’s head limply rolls and tucks into Geralt’s chest. 

With decades of practice to guide him, Geralt pushes away the feeling of his heart being squeezed. He knows all too well how to put aside the distracting thoughts and focus on the task at hand. 

As he’s lowered into the tub, Jaskier lets out a small, involuntary gasp. Still, his eyes remain shut but the small flutter of his eyelids give Geralt a brief moment to relax. For now, at least, he isn’t dead. 

The Witcher wonders whether he should visit that alchemist again, to show her what he thinks of her decision to not tell Geralt about what the effects of the cure would have on Jaskier. But, that can come later. He’s tired enough as is and can’t bring himself to spare an ounce of his attention to anything else. 

After a few minutes of sitting by the bathtub, Geralt finds the silence to be unbearable. Suddenly, he understands what it means to be Jaskier, to have the insistent need to fill the quiet. And so, Geralt does what he’s always disliked. 

He rambles. 

“I know you can’t hear me - at least, I don’t think you can - which makes everything I’m about to say a lot easier.” Geralt hesitates, licking his lips. “I don’t know how I’ll make it through this world without you. I - I’ve barely made it these few years. If it weren’t for Ciri, I doubt I would’ve. Oh, that’s right. You haven’t met her yet. My child of surprise.” 

From there, Geralt loses control of his tongue - the damn thing spilling every thought and experience Geralt has had since they parted ways. 

Somewhere between telling Jaskier of the time Ciri killed a nest of vampires on her own - 

( _“I’ll tell you the whole thing when you wake up. You simply_ must _write a ballad about it. I’ve never been more proud.”_ )

\- and the story of how Geralt became the target of a coven of witches, the Witcher realises his hands have been wandering. His calloused palms run up and down the bard neck and chest, washing water over every inch of his flushed skin. 

Geralt’s touch never falters, though he thinks it should. But he can’t help the urge to keep roaming, as if checking his bard is still real. 

He is - as Geralt carefully carries him from the tub and dries him off. The laundress had delivered Jaskier’s clothes back, Geralt dresses him as gently as he can. Geralt lays him on the bed and prays to every god that will listen that the bard will wake soon. 

He starts to move away, content to sleep on the floor but before he can leave, Jaskier’s lips open in a quiet mumble. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s breath catches in his throat, hovering over the bard to hear him better. 

As he starts to think he’d imagined it, Jaskier’s mouth moves again. “Please.” His hoarse voice is scarcely above a whisper. “Don’t… don't leave.” 

Conscious or not, the desperation is clear in his tone and it seems to physically pull Geralt closer. He can’t deny Jaskier anything, not in this state, not ever. 

“I - I won’t,” Geralt says. 

Despite his hesitations, Geralt settles into the bed next to Jaskier, slowly rolling until he lays on his side - watching like a hawk. Jaskier makes no more noise, content in his feverish state now that Geralt is by him. 

“I won’t leave you again.” A promise, an oath to keep till his dying breath. 

Geralt falls asleep, slipping closer and closer to his bard. 

—

A soft groan is enough to startle Geralt awake, his eyes snapping open to be greeted by that vibrant ocean - clearer than before - that Geralt’s sorely missed. A weight is lifted from the Witcher’s shoulders and he happily gives in to the rush of relief that washes over him. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt says, pushing himself up to rest on his elbows. 

The bard watches him, his face more lively but his heart is racing all too fast for comfort. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to speak but instead of words, the bard twists over the bed, and out pours the little contents of his stomach. 

“Fuck.” Geralt rolls from his side of the bed and in a few large strides, he’s kneeling before Jaskier. “Hey, hey, come on, remember to breathe. Jaskier?” 

The bard’s horrible retching fades as he can only throw up bile. But eventually, he manages to regain himself, panting heavily as he lays back on the bed. Jaskier throws an arm over his eyes. 

“Why the _fuck_ is it so bright?” he groans. 

And Geralt laughs - he laughs like it’s the funniest jokes he’s ever heard because it’s _Jaskier_. It’s him. His voice. His words. _It’s fucking him_. 

Does this mean it’s over? The cure worked? Because Geralt might not be able to stomach it if the detox continues. 

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks. 

“Marvellous. Except my head feels like it might explode.” 

“Of course,” he says. “I - uh - ” for once Geralt is rendered speechless - “what do you remember?” 

Jaskier doesn’t answer right away. “Must we - ” he bolts up, twisting over the bed and vomits again. 

Geralt rubs small circles into Jaskier’s back, doing what little he can to comfort him. It seems on reflex that Jaskier clutches onto the Witcher’s arm, nailing digging deep when only dark blood comes up. 

Once Jaskier catches his breath again, a trickle of blood on his lips that Geralt instinctively wipes away, he looks to the Witcher with expecting eyes. 

“Must we talk about that now?” he finishes, trying to force a smile. “Is my company not enough?” 

If Geralt didn’t know better he would let himself be distracted by the natural beauty of the bard. But he _does_ know better. He can recognise the tired pinch to Jaskier’s tone, how he’s only talking now as a coping mechanism. 

“We have to talk about it sometime,” Geralt says. 

“Please,” Jaskier protests, voice soft and fragile. “Not now.”

Geralt sighs. “What do you want, then?”

“Sleep. Food. For my skull to have less pressure than the bottom of the ocean.” 

“I can get the first two.” 

“Good enough,” Jaskier says, shuffling in the bed to get comfortable and it seems his eyes close on their own accord. 

His breaths even out almost instantly, his body curling in on itself. The bard’s relaxed face makes him appear younger than his years, innocent despite everything that’s happened to him. Geralt is lost for a moment, more than happy to watch Jaskier sleep - a simple pleasure he realises he’s missed - but his bard asked for food. 

Geralt drags himself from Jaskier’s side, casting a glance full of longing at him before leaving the room. He collects enough food for both of them and returns with haste. 

Jaskier doesn’t move as the Witcher enters, placing the tray of food down and settles to carefully observe the rise and falls of his chest. 

Geralt finds with every passing second something warm growing inside of him. Hope. It’s soft and sweet - a comforting sweet - and he won’t mind if it makes a home in the Witcher. He won’t mind because he has Jaskier. 

—

It’s the next night when Jaskier manages to keep his meal down and when Geralt decides its time to keep moving. 

“She’ll be on us soon enough,” he says, trying to convince the bard to move but any mention of the Lady makes him shut down. 

“We haven’t been found yet.” Jaskier’s dressed in the cheapest clothes Geralt could find and still, he can radiate the aura of utmost confidence. “Find your witch and bring her here. Why risk it?”

Geralt sighs, stepping closer to Jaskier and lets a gentle hand rest on his shoulder. He lowers his voice. “I won’t let her take you, not again.” 

“I’d rather die than go back.” 

Like a punch to the gut. “It won’t come to that. I swear it.” 

There’s a darkness that’s swept over Jaskier’s eyes, one that makes Geralt blood boil at the idea of the bard’s light being snatched away. 

Jaskier doesn’t look convinced but nods anyway. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Geralt’s plan is simple - send a message to Yennefer and meet her in the same place they had organised before. Jaskier had rolled his eyes at the mention of her name but he wasn’t offering any better ideas. 

Jaskier is practically hanging onto Geralt as they move through the town - alert and cautious of everyone around them. It’s rather endearing, Geralt thinks, that after everything the Witcher is still a staple of safety. 

With the townspeople choosing to ignore the pair, they leave without an incident and as they become enshrouded with the woods, Jaskier relaxes just enough that his body isn’t as stiff as a board. Geralt wants to move quickly but the bard’s mortal legs are still wobbly from his ordeal. 

The town below Ave’s estate is still a days travel. And also in the wrong direction. 

Geralt wants to visit that alchemist again - see if it’s within her magical abilities to send for Yenn. If not, it would only be another day that Yennefer would come for him. 

“I need to know,” Jaskier says out of the blue, “Orrott, did - did you…” 

This isn’t the time nor the place for this conversation but again, Geralt can’t deny his bard. “I had no choice. He’d killed Witchers before, he wouldn’t have stopped.” 

“I believe you,” is all Jaskier says. It doesn’t reveal any of his true emotions but at least he doesn’t think Geralt would ever lie to him. 

Which is enough. Maybe Geralt’s gotten into the habit of thinking too far ahead but he can’t help but wonder where Jaskier will go after this. Whether the past has truly been forgiven or the wounds still too fresh. Until the bard delegates it a good time to talk, Geralt won’t know. 

“You were friends?” _Really_ friends goes without saying. 

Jaskier looks down, ashamed as if any of this is his fault. “I think so. I - I don’t know… whether that was all fake too.” 

“Do you want it to be real?” 

“I don’t want any of this to be real. But, to answer your question, I’ll have to judge it all again. With a clearer mind.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Still such a conversationalist.” 

Geralt risks a glance to the bard, finding the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. It’s soft and real - it’s _real_. Which makes the tiny gesture all the more bright. 

Jaskier catches his gaze, his eyes glinting in the sunlight like they once did. And suddenly, Geralt is two decades younger, his mind less heavy, and there is a fresh, annoying voice next to him. The voice fills the bitter silence and day by day, the Witcher finds himself relying more and more on this voice. To calm him after a hunt, to soothe his soul with sweet songs, to be a companion for one incredibly lonely man. 

And he knows why those cursed words tasted like acid on his tongue. Why his body ached with the need to _follow_ but it was frozen in place. Why guilt has been latched to him like another limb. 

Geralt knows why his heart races every time he sees the stupid, annoying, breathtaking bard. 

It makes sense really. 

It makes sense that Geralt loves - 

An arrow whirls passed his head, scarcely grazing his skull. A better shot could have killed him. 

A better shot follows and Geralt has to dodge the speeding arrow. His swords are unsheathed in less than a heartbeat as he spins around, eyes furiously scanning the forest. 

They settle on a lone archer, another arrow nocked and pointed for the Witcher. The archer lets the arrow fly, eyes widening as Geralt cuts it in half. They whistle. And even without Jaskier’s panicked whisper, Geralt understands what’s about to happen. 

“It’s them,” the bard says. His hand comes to clutch the loose fabric of Geralt’s shirt, clawing into it like a lifeline. 

A crowd the size of a small army race from the trees, dressed in armour and armed to the teeth. 

With his back, Geralt pushes Jaskier - flushing him against a tree. At least this way, Geralt can be sure no one will grab the bard from behind. 

One soldier steps forward, her dark eyes familiar to Geralt. Jaskier gasps behind him. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” she says, “you have something of ours and we want it back.” A mocking of his own words from scarcely a week ago. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

Lies, all of it. “Don’t pretend surrender is an option,” he hisses through a clenched jaw. 

“I’m not. But I’d rather not kill you in front of our dear Jaskier.” 

His name in her mouth sends spikes of rage through him. Geralt scans his surroundings - he’s had worse chances, and here, he has something to fight for. Something to protect. Something he’ll defend until his last breaths. 

Lowering his voice, Geralt says to Jaskier, “There’s a dagger in my waistband. Take it.” 

Jaskier obeys, his hands shaking as he fumbles with the Witcher’s pants. “I - I know these people. Geralt, I _can’t_.” 

Friends or not, these people aided in all the hurt done to Jaskier. And for that, he won’t spare them. 

“Don’t look then.”

His swords move on their own accord, slicing arrows and blocking blades as they come his way. He doesn’t quite register who he cuts down, only that his precious swords are being coated in the blood of Ave’s mindless soldiers. Geralt pays only a spare piece of mind to note that none of them are drenched in that horribly sweet scent. 

No. They’re here by free will. Something Jaskier wasn’t privy to. 

A lucky blow slices his bicep, he gives a grunt of pain before taking down the soldier. 

Jaskier’s presence behind him is the only thing grounding Geralt to the present. The clanging of metal on metal, the feeling of his sword entering body after body, blood mixing with his own, Geralt could get lost in all of it. But he needs to be sure his bard is still safe. 

He sees Jaskier move from the corner of his eye and that’s enough. Geralt brings his silver sword up - these people are deserving of it - ready to strike the soldier’s neck. A clean blow would send her head rolling. 

Except, Geralt’s strike never lands. His blade stops just a hair's breadth from the soldier’s throat - a powerful hand on his arm preventing him from moving anymore. Jaskier’s arm shakes from the effort it’s taking to keep Geralt at bay. 

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” he asks quietly, his focus never leaving the dark-eyed soldier. 

Instead of answering, Jaskier turns to the soldier, his voice soft and pleading. “Midas, please don't do this.” 

Her eyes soften slightly as she looks to the bard. _Weird for a heartless monster_ , Geralt thinks. 

“Jaskier, turn around. You don’t need to see this,” she says, awfully confident for someone with a sword to her throat, and her tone leaves little room for argument. 

Geralt eyes his bard carefully, noting how his grip of the Witcher tightens, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to physically stop himself from obeying the order. Geralt’s heart falters at the idea that Jaskier might leave him. 

But he doesn’t. 

“You don’t understand,” Jaskier says, “you can’t kill him.” 

“Jaskier, you don’t know what you’re doing.” Midas is completely ignoring the Witcher now, eyes firmly planted on the bard. “Let me help you.” 

“Midas, don't do this.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt stresses. 

A flash of raw panic crosses the ocean of the bard’s eyes, his chest beginning to rise too rapidly for Geralt’s liking. He’s at a loss. What little trust between them would be shattered before the Witcher could fully strike the woman down. But he won’t allow himself to fall victim to these people. 

Then, as soft as a gust of wind, Jaskier’s voice that barely graces Geralt’s own heightened senses - the movement of his lips smaller than an ant’s footstep. “Follow my lead.” 

Geralt doesn’t let his attention falter, not even the slight twitch of his face will give away whatever his bard has in plan. 

Slowly, Geralt lowers his sword, still wary with distrust but, deep in that frozen heart of his, he believes Jaskier wouldn’t lead him astray - his heart too pure for that. At least, that’s how Geralt remembers the bard to be. 

Everything is riding on that fact. 

“You can’t kill him,” Jaskier repeats, his whole demeanour shifting into the drugged bard without a care in the world. “Not here. Wouldn’t Ave want to see it?” 

Midas releases a sharp breath, the corner of her mouth twitching up. “You’re right. We’ll take him back with us, put on a good show.” 

With a wave of her hand, a dozen soldiers swarm him. Geralt realises, as he surveys how large the crowd really is, he might not have won this fight. Perhaps Jaskier had seen that. Either way, with a sword aimed at him from every direction, Geralt isn’t willing to try fighting his way out of this. 

Midas visibly relaxes, putting a firm hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezes. “You had me worried for a moment there.” 

Jaskier returns the gesture. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.” She casts the Witcher a glare. “And you’re here now, that’s all that matters.” 

There’s a beat of silence that Jaskier can’t fill. It’s too long before he says, “We should keep moving before he gets any ideas.” 

-

There are never any less than eight swords pointed at the Witcher, never less than a dozen pairs of eyes on him but his own never leave Jaskier. The bard risks few glances at Geralt, his face flashing to become apologetic before returning to the relieved, almost joyous, expression that is expected from a man saved from a kidnapping Witcher. 

That’s the story told by Midas at least, as she inspects the swords confiscated from Geralt like new toys. She hasn’t left Jaskier’s side, nor have most of the soldiers with her. He was quite popular, it seems, but now, Jaskier can’t find it in him to completely return the excitement. Geralt can hear each rapid beat of his heart when anyone gets too near. 

They’ve made camp for the night, Geralt placed too far away from the fire to get any warmth, hands tied with thick rope behind his back. But his seething rage is enough to keep the chill of night away. There’s no doubt in Geralt’s mind that these soldiers knew of and were passive in the manipulation and drugging of his bard - Midas for certain knows. 

She hands him a canteen of water, urging him to drink. Jaskier looks to Geralt for a moment, just enough time for the Witcher to give the slightest shake of his head. The sweet scent was thick the moment the canteen was taken out. 

“I’m not thirsty,” Jaskier tries to protest. 

“Please,” Midas says, pushing the canteen further to him, “you need your strength.” 

His still slightly pale skin, body thinner than it had been - though not by much - can be readily explained by the harsh detox. Or, as Geralt can tell Ave’s soldiers are thinking, by whatever torture the sick and twisted Witcher put him through. 

Geralt could roll his eyes at the thought. 

Jaskier licks his lips, considering his options. And, with hesitant hands, takes the canteen as takes a sip - only for Midas to push it up, forcing him to drink deeply. 

Geralt holds his breath. If he loses Jaskier again, like this, so easily, Geralt might snap for good this time. 

—

Jaskier goes to relieve himself. “Midas, please,” he says with a laugh, “five minutes alone won’t kill me.” 

He comes back smelling of vomit and gives Geralt a wink. A small amount of the Witcher’s worry leaves him - a voice, that sounds suspiciously like the damn bard, tells him to trust Jaskier. 

He is trying. 

—

Geralt isn’t allowed anywhere near Jaskier and it’s agonising. There’s nothing more he wants than to hold the bard, to make up for their lost time. And mostly to soothe the restless whisper that’s been vying for attention since the realisation came like a punch to the face. 

It makes the trip easier to dwell in that thought. Geralt has a wonderful view of Jaskier’s behind - which he _certainly_ shouldn’t be thinking of. When the bard looks over his shoulder to speak to someone, Geralt relishes in the sharp line of his jaw, the sun sparkling in his eyes. 

It’s the little things that Geralt holds on to. The two day walk would be unbearable otherwise. 

When Ave’s estate comes into view, Geralt forces away his wandering thoughts to remain put. His body tenses naturally, readying himself for anything. 

But what he had forgotten was that fucking _sorceress_. Magic slams into him the moment his foot passes onto the grounds, Geralt grunts as he’s forced to his knees. 

Jaskier’s head whips around at the sound, his body poised to run for the Witcher. But as sudden as his fall, a voice pierces the air. 

“ _Jaskier_.” 

The bard turns just in time to catch a whirlwind of dark skin that leaps into his arms. Geralt can see Jaskier’s face but he buries it into the woman’s shoulder, hands tangling into her auburn hair. 

Like a damn family reunion, as Jaskier let’s go, the woman is replaced with another - hugging the bard tightly as if he might disappear. The woman pulls back, revealing red-rimmed eyes. Her hands come to cup Jaskier’s face. 

“I was so scared,” she says, fresh tears joining dried ones, “and with Orrott, I - I can’t - ”

“It’s okay,” Jaskier replies and Geralt knows he isn’t faking the softness in his voice. “I’m okay.” 

Geralt has a brief realisation that _of course, they’re friends, it’s been years they spent together_. No drug can falsify this. But it’s quickly pushed aside to focus on the sorceress stalking for him - Lady Ave at her side. 

Her lips mutter something in Elder and burning hot pain tears its way through Geralt’s body. Like fire snaking around his very bones, Geralt can only grunt - biting his tongue from preventing any more sound from escaping. In the ever-expanding eternity it feels as though he’s trapped in, Geralt begins to think this pain can rival the Witcher transformation. The rearranging of his own being. Years of tolerance crumpling under one witch. 

“That’s _enough_ ,” cries a distant voice and it’s all that it takes for the fire to retract. 

When his blurry vision clears, Geralt finds Jaskier planted firmly between him and the sorceress. He came to protect the Witcher - even against the people he spent years with, the people he said he’d rather die than return to. 

Maybe there’s hope for them after all. 

That is if they escape from here - again - because if looks could kill, Ave would have slaughtered every breathing thing here. 

Ave takes a step closer to Jaskier, running a hand down his cheek, looking at him as she would a misbehaving child. “Silly songbird, you don't have to defend him any longer. We all learned his true nature when he murdered our dear Orrott.”

Struggling to explain himself - and trying not to flinch, judging by how his fists clench at her touch - Jaskier says, “I - my Lady, I simply think we shouldn’t waste our effort on him.”

She gives him a condescending smile. “I’m glad to see that the beast hasn’t taken your compassion. But, like all monsters, it must be put down.”

Geralt is really hoping Jaskier’s plan is good. He tempted to, right here and now, sweep the bard into his arms and run from this place - and strike down any who stand in his way. 

It’s almost a skill that Ave has, to make Geralt sick to his stomach with only a few words, how she talks _at_ Jaskier but not _to_ him. But, Geralt supposes, without any free will or thought of their own, it’s easy to mistake a human for an object. 

As Jaskier goes to reply, Ave cuts him off. “Kele, Emeline, take my songbird back to his room. He needs his rest,” she orders. The women move instantly, taking either of the bard’s sides and link their arms together. Jaskier can’t even get another look at Geralt before he’s dragged away. Looking down at the Witcher, Ave continues, “As for you, an execution at dawn sounds fitting. What better way to mark a new day than with the blood of a Witcher.”

With a flick of her wrist, the sorceress brings Geralt to his feet - his limbs moving at her will. He remembers how Yennefer described this mage. _Not very powerful_ , she had said, but it seems time has taught her well. 

She forces him to follow after Ave like he belongs to her. And though he fights every step, the sorceress sends bolts of electricity through him for his resistance. He won’t go quietly, despite the fact that it seems Jaskier's plan had expected this. 

Geralt accepts it as he’s steered behind the estate, a plain door - dusty from little use - leading underground to a small series of cells. A dungeon. Geralt shouldn’t be surprised that Ave has a dungeon. 

Geralt accepts it as the cell door closes behind him, the mage whispering something in Elder. He brings a hand up, aimed to punch to the silver bars and finds the invisible barrier he was expecting. Maybe if he was determined enough, he could break through the magic.

Geralt accepts it as he is fully left in Jaskier’s hands. 

He can’t tell whether he’s relieved or terrified at that idea.

— 

Jaskier has had genius ideas - such as bringing Geralt as his bodyguard to Queen Calanthe’s ball, cementing their paths together for decades - and has had as many bad ones - following Geralt up that damn mountain comes to mind - but this one, this plan is something else. Truly, it will go down as either his best or his worst. 

And Jaskier is mulling over the fine details while at dinner with the very people he is seeking to undermine. 

Gods, he’s an idiot. But these last few days haven’t given him much time to think things through. He needs to act before another world-altering revelation is given to him. 

Jaskier hadn’t believed Geralt at first, of course not, his words went against years of trust. But when he woke up from… whatever the hell happened, he knew it to be true, knew it deep in his heart. For that, for saving him, Jaskier is eternally grateful. Still pissed about what the damn Witcher said to him on the mountain, though. 

Rightfully so, he thinks. But that’s a problem for after they escape Ave. Again. This time without any casualties. That’s all Jaskier wants, the last thing he needs is a trail of bodies to haunt him. 

The image of Orrott’s corpse, bloodied and cold, has been sneaking closer and closer to Jaskier’s mind ever since Emeline mentioned him. Geralt did what he had to, Jaskier understands that - but there was something between them. Created by the drug or not, the bard can’t shake that feeling. 

“Jaskier?” It’s Mara, dragging him from his thoughts. “You haven’t touched your plate.”

“Oh, um - ” he clears his throat - “right, I’m just - I’m not hungry.” He doesn’t want to have to throw this up is the truth. Forcing the water from his stomach was bad enough. 

“Of course,” Kele says, “after the ordeal you’ve been through, I’m not surprised. But you look dreadful, you need food.”

“Glad you haven’t lost your charm,” he retorts. 

“Never. Eat before I force it down your throat.” 

Given by Ave small glance to him, Jaskier doesn’t doubt she would. Gingerly, he brings the fork to his mouth - tasting nothing obvious but his gut churns. 

After scarcely an hour, Jaskier learns he was right, it was fucking horrible to have the meal come back up. He wipes his mouth with a cloth, not daring to look himself in the mirror at the vanity. 

His mind is set. And yes, his heart is racing. And yes, he hasn’t exactly thought everything through. But, fuck it, he’ll get his Witcher or die trying. Jaskier wonders whether that’s even an option - he wasn’t allowed to die on that forest floor all those years ago, why should tonight be any different. 

That’s a problem for later. Now, as he slowly creeps through the desolate hallways, Jaskier only has thought: where are they keeping Geralt? 

He had gotten a glance at where they were leading him, somewhere behind the estate but Jaskier doesn’t know of anywhere he could be. Though, he also hadn’t known Ave had been fucking drugging him for _years_ , so his knowledge can’t exactly be trusted. 

Jaskier’s gotten excellent at pushing down the overwhelming sense of disorientation like the world has tilted and he’s the only one who knows it. He can’t wait for this all to be over - he’ll go wherever Geralt takes him and _then_ he’ll break down. Then he can cry and scream over this injustice, then he can begin to process that his life has been a lie for so long. 

He hadn’t processed that he spent two decades with someone who didn’t want him - or at least, claimed. Because the Witcher’s here now but that’s too confusing to think about this moment. And now, what? Five years? Almost six of his life was ripped from under him.

But he can’t think about that now. Jaskier can feel his heart speeding up, fear lumping in the back of his throat. He swallows it down. 

Jaskier manages to slip outside undetected - remembering the routes and rotations of the guards. The air is bitterly cold but it’s refreshing, he hadn’t noticed how suffocating being inside those walls is. Like Ave’s trying to physically force herself down the bard’s throat. 

Out here, his mind is clear - as clear as it can be - and he finds that his feet need no instructions. He heads for where he last saw Geralt, his footsteps light on the pathed ground. 

As he passes through the grounds, he _won’t_ remember how he and Mara would read under the afternoon sun for hours, and he _won’t_ see Emeline’s and Kele’s wicked grins as they chase him. And he certainly won’t see Orrott, broad shoulders, gentle hands, _bloodied and dead_. 

Focus. This plan may have been contrived and idiotic but Geralt trusted it, trusted _Jaskier_. The least the bard could do is make sure they see the end of it together. 

“What are you doing, Jaskier?” a voice asks. 

_Fuck_. He looks up, finding Esca watching him with her dark eyes filled with concern. It seems Ave has added extra security since his disappearance. 

“I - uh, needed some air,” he rushes. 

She nears him. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” 

“I know, it’s just - I haven’t had much time to just, breathe, you know? By myself.”

Esca nods, clearing her throat awkwardly. She says, “Still, you know the rules.”

“Could you make an exception? For me?” Jaskier asks, trying to force back the creeping anxiety. Geralt doesn’t have another night if the bard fails. “After everything that - that’s happened, I need a moment.”

Esca looks him over, finding nothing but the weak, hurt man Jaskier wants him to see. After a brief moment, she buys it. 

“Okay,” she says softly, “I won’t tell Ave about this if you come talk to me when you’re ready.”

He fakes a smile. “Of course.” 

For less than a heartbeat, Esca’s eyes dart aside and if it weren’t for the fact Jaskier spent so long with a Witcher with a grudge against conversation, he wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Well, then, just be careful,” Esca warns. “Never know what could be out here.” 

“Thank you.” _Fuck you_. 

Esca moves past Jaskier, continuing her rounds. He walks slowly, waiting until she’s out of sight before rushing to where she glanced. 

The wall of the estate had never grabbed his attention before but that’s probably because he was never told to look. 

How? How did Jaskier become so mindless? He was never one to just _accept_ what he’s told - growing up in his disaster of a family taught him to recognise the million different meanings behind every word and action. 

The door isn’t even hidden. It’s blatant because Ave never thought her zombies would look where they’re not told. They wouldn’t breathe if she told them not to. 

Jaskier pushes open the door, wincing as it creaks. When Esca doesn’t come running, he slowly makes his way inside. There’s a staircase going down and he takes each step with caution. It grows darker and darker as he descends, only the faint moonlight behind him to illuminate his way. 

“Geralt?” he whispers as he reaches level ground. 

“Here,” the Witcher’s gruff voice responds. 

Jaskier follows the sound until he reaches Geralt, the Witcher’s eyes lighting his way. 

“Have they always done that?” The words slip from Jaskier tongue before he can’t register them. 

“What?”

“Your eyes are glowing.”

The bard sees his eyes roll and somehow, that hurts more than if he saw it in the light. 

“Is that why you’ve come?” Geralt asks sarcastically. 

“I can leave if you want.”

“Jaskier,” he growls. 

“Fine. Come on out, then,” Jaskier says, stepping back from the cell. 

“It’s warded.”

“Check again.”

Geralt eyes him and Jaskier knows his Witcher senses can see the smug look on his face as Geralt raises a hand to the cell bars. The golden glowing eyes widen ever so slightly once he finds that nothing is stopping his fingers from slipping between the bars. 

Wasting no time, Geralt kicks the door open. 

“How?” the Witcher asks. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Mara’s only strong in small doses. Once she loses concentration, her magic’s all but gone. And a few drinks are more than able to do so.”

Geralt gives a breathy laugh, clasping the bard on the shoulder. “I missed you,” he admits quietly. 

_I’ve missed you more than you could possibly know_ , he thinks. “Save that shit for when this is actually over.” 

“Right. Let’s go.” 

Jaskier leads, Geralt’s presence behind him serves as a tether to keep his mind from straying again. 

Moonlight shines upon them quickly and when Jaskier risks a glance to the Witcher, his breath hitches in his throat - his impossible jawline, his eyes shining like stars. And oh gods, he never moved on, did he? 

One more problem for another time. 

“Where to?” Geralt asks. 

“No one checks beyond the tree line, we should be safe there.” 

They run. 

Geralt lays a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, pushing him faster but keeping him stable as he tries to keep up with the Witcher. The jolt of energy through his bones each time his feet slap against the ground is enough to encourage Jaskier. The borderline pain in his legs, his lungs drawing in air, actually feeling something - something real, something _raw_ rather than the muted, honeyed version of what he’d grown used to - makes him realise that this is all worth it. 

The utter heartbreak of it all is worth it to feel this good. 

And with Geralt by his side - well, behind him, shielding his back - Jaskier thinks it’s enough. 

The tree line comes too quickly and not fast enough. They don’t slow for several dozen meters, well away from any line of sight until Geralt starts to slow - not even out of breath compared to Jaskier’s panting chest. 

Geralt gives him a moment to catch his breath before asking, “You didn’t grab anything?” 

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

The Witcher clenches his jaw. “It’s _your_ plan.”

“And it’s going accordingly.” 

“Hmm.” 

Still stubborn and such a hard ass. 

Geralt continues, “Yennefer will be coming soon, we can wait here until dawn.” 

“When was she a part of the plan?” Jaskier can’t quite tell where the hatred of the sorceress is coming from - himself or what Ave instilled in him. 

“She can portal us away. You won’t have to deal with this place again.” 

“You don’t listen do you?” 

“We should keep moving, though, get away from here.” 

“My gods, Geralt, I will kick your ass.” 

“Come on.” 

“ _No_. You really think I’ll just leave them behind?”

Taken aback - and Jaskier was right, surprised looks very good on him - Geralt says, “Them? Jaskier, _they_ aren’t your friends. _They_ enslaved you for years.” 

“No, they didn’t. Ave did. Mara, Emeline, Kele, they’re as innocent as I am. I can’t leave them behind.” 

“Jaskier, please.” Geralt’s voice grows low, a hint of desperation leaking through. “If we don’t leave now… I - I won’t lose you again.”

Jaskier can’t argue against the sorrowful golden eyes looking back at him, the shakiness to the Witcher’s voice - and perhaps the first time he’s openly admitted feeling _anything_. 

The fight leaves the bard as he says gently, “You won’t. But, Geralt, there’s no one coming for them. Not tonight. Not ever. I can’t live with myself knowing they won’t ever get another taste of freedom.”

Geralt’s eyes soften, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to reach out. Jaskier wishes he would. 

“Okay,” the Witcher mutters, “what do you propose?”

—

It takes hardly a word to fall from Jaskier’s mouth for Lady Ave to fall. Geralt is rather impressed and a little turned on by the bard’s knowledge of courtly ins and outs. 

Word of Ave’s misdoings spread like wildfire. Rumors of drugging, kidnapping, and murder aren’t taken lightly - especially to those seeking to take the Lady down, taking any information, true or false. 

Geralt has never been one to concern himself with the intricate details of royal scrabbles but seeing Jaskier so effortlessly give ammunition to a bunch of noble, petty rulers makes him want to learn. To understand just how swiftly Ave was taken down, stripped of her title. 

“It’s rather satisfying, isn’t it?” Jaskier asks as they walk through the no empty halls of the large estate. 

Geralt has collected his swords, Jaskier his lute and other belongings. Their shoulders bump against each other, hands just brushing together - Geralt too afraid of going any further. 

“It’s what she deserves,” Geralt says. 

“Right you are.” 

Geralt can see how tense the bard’s shoulders are, how tight his tone is, but decides not to mention it. Now isn’t the time nor place. 

The whole building seems eerily quiet - the servants and guards laid off, Ave kept tight in chains as she awaits execution, the rest of what remains of her court spread across the continent to heal. 

Emeline was quickly approached by the continent’s greatest collection of scholars and philosophers. A series of historical texts to safeguard and study was enough to draw her in once Ave’s fate was explained. 

Kele followed, the women have settled in a cozy cottage months away from where Ave had them living. From what Geralt gathers, she paints the days away, waits for her lover to return. 

Mara is the most difficult to situate. Her chaos is largely uncontrolled but few places where she can go. Yennefer takes her to a safe house, a place to gain her bearings before trying to teach her anything. 

Geralt thanks Yenn heavily for allowing Jaskier her home. 

“He owes me now,” she says, a mere defence against any genuine emotion. 

“ _I_ owe you.” 

“I still want nothing from you, don't forget it.”

—

Jaskier told himself he’d break down once he and Geralt were safe and by Gods, did he. 

Yennefer’s home was lovely and Ciri, Geralt’s child of surprise, was a blessing. But neither was capable of taking away the resulting depression. 

The days he spends in bed are some of the longest of his life. The life that meant so little to Ave, the life that was so worthless that freedom wasn’t even a given right - like he was an animal. A beast. 

And those days, when he can’t even bring himself to roll over because no one has told him he can, Geralt, bless his heart, does what he can. 

Breakfast is brought to the bard and goes wasted until it’s replaced with lunch, then dinner, then simply some water. But how can he trust it? The only thing he’s come to completely understand is that his judgment has never been proven right - he can’t believe a thing told to him. Jaskier wants nothing more than to fall into the soft mattress, to disappear from this realm and land somewhere he doesn’t have to carry this weight. 

Ciri visits sometimes during these days, the time Jaskier spends out of bed is often with her, her curious nature and bright eyes. Mostly, she sits on the bed next to the bard, uncaring of how his back is to her and lets her mouth ramble. She describes her tales with Geralt, the years lost to Jaskier because he was ignorant, stupid, _he deserved it_. 

He won’t mention how, oftentimes, she does more harm than good. He likes her voice. And he will settle for however he gets it. 

Yennefer comes, though less frequently, telling him of Mara and her progress. She has yet to fully grasp how destructive Ave’s influence was to her but her power has grown. Jaskier misses her. But Yenn thinks it could destroy her fragile development. Jaskier knows she’s talking about him and not the girl. 

Geralt manages to drag Jaskier from the bed a few times, propping him up like a ragdoll in the fresh air. It’s pitiful but the bard doesn’t have the energy to fight against it. He watches the mighty Witcher train his little princess, their swords flashing in the sunlight. It’s - well, it’s something. 

He stays there until Geralt comes to him, coated in a thin sheen of sweat, breathless and asks, “Are you hungry?”

Jaskier’s stomach rumbles in response, he’s been hungry for hours now but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. 

Geralt offers the bard his hand, pulling him up and they float around in Yennefer’s kitchen - preparing a meal that Jaskier has full control over. His eyes never leave Geralt’s hands, he hates that he can’t bring himself to trust the Witcher despite everything. 

Though, as Jaskier eats, he accepts that fact that progress is progress. Forcing himself to remember that on the days the curtains never open. 

“Do you want to go outside?” Geralt asks as he lays another wasted meal down. 

Jaskier blinks. His cheeks are stained with tears, his heart threatening to shatter like glass. “Yes.” 

—

Yennefer approaches Geralt and Jaskier as the bard picks at his breakfast - the Witcher watching every bite - her tone leaving no room for argument as she says, “I’ll be leaving for a few days and I’m taking Ciri.” 

Geralt chokes on his water. “Absolutely not.” 

Jaskier leans back in his chair, eyes darting between the battle of stubbornness about to unfold before him. 

The sorceress crosses her arms, shrugging innocently. “I already talked to her about it. And she agrees, she needs to get away for awhile.” 

“Fine, then we can all go,” Geralt says. 

Her purple eyes flicker to Jaskier’s - and he’s torn between flinching under the sheer weight of it and offering comfort for the clear frustration she holds. Many of their conversations are spoken solely through looks. 

Knowing what she’s about to say, Geralt interrupts, “Ciri’s not going without me.” 

“Since when did you become an overbearing mother?” 

“Hmm.” 

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “She’s more than capable of taking care of herself. We both know that.” 

Jaskier knows there’s no fighting the sorceress and it takes another hour for Geralt to give up. Ciri is more than eager to go, bouncing with energy as she says goodbye to the Witcher. 

She gives Jaskier a tight hug. “Keep him company,” she says, letting Geralt here, “he gets lonely.” 

Jaskier smiles. “Of course. Enjoy your break from him.” 

“If you two are done,” Geralt says flatly. 

Ciri gives him a playful shove as she moves past him, joining Yenn’s side. The girl’s link arm and the mage opens a portal - where it leads Jaskier doesn’t quite know. All he was told was that Yennefer needs some magical item to help with Mara to control her chaos.

It only took her name for Jaskier to stop caring about the details. Anyway, he has the next few peaceful days alone with Geralt. Something he hasn’t had in far too long. 

“So, what do you propose we do?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt’s eyes remain fixed on where the girls had once been, his jaw clenched. 

“Come on,” the bard complains, “they’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about Ciri constantly.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Okay, that’s it.” Jaskier grabs onto Geralt’s wrist, dragging him back inside. 

The Witcher grumbles but doesn’t bother to fight back. He lets Jaskier lead him through the cottage. The bard opens a small closet door down the hallway, one Geralt had never bothered to open before - given by his intrigued grunt. 

Jaskier finds the false back, pops it open, and takes Geralt down the dusty flight of stairs. 

“What is this?” Geralt asks. 

“Yennefer’s collection.” 

They end in a large cellar, the walls lined with wines, whiskeys, and everything Jaskier could imagine. 

Geralt lets out a low wolf whistle. “Why am I only just now learning about this place?” 

Jaskier shrugs. “Ask Yenn but in the meantime, wanna drink until you can’t see straight?” 

As an answer, Geralt picks up a bottle of rum, uses his teeth to pull out the cork, and takes a swing. He passes it to Jaskier, who takes it with a grin. 

By the time they’ve reached the bottom of the bottle, a fresh bottle of who knows what in Geralt’s hand, Jaskier thinks his distraction has worked. Geralt hasn’t mentioned Ciri’s name, more content with watching Jaskier’s giddy laughter at some joke he’s already forgotten. 

They sit cross legged in the middle of the cellar, knees pressed against knees, passing the bottle back and forth as the mindless chatter sweeps away the time. 

“What are you looking at?” Jaskier asks, his head swaying slightly. 

Geralt doesn’t answer straight away, a small smile on his lips as he watches every one of Jaskier’s moves. It seems he’d forgotten the bard had spoken until he snaps back to reality. 

“I missed you,” the Witcher says softly. 

“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too, you big softie. Now - ” Jaskier makes a grabby hand for the bottle, grinning as he takes a large gulp. 

“No, really, Jaskier, I missed you. I - I regret _everything_ I said on - on the, uh, mountain.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You’re drunk.” He emphasises the _k_. 

“Bullshit. You’re more drunker. Drunkest.” He’s confused himself. “No, you.”

Jaskier cackles a laugh. Unable to hold himself up, the bard continues the laugh as he leans forward, his head falling onto Geralt’s knee. He can feel the burly Witcher start to laugh, the vibration shaking his skull. 

“Shut up,” Geralt says between laughs. 

It only makes the bard worse, his cheeks burning. Finally, he brings his head back up, blinking through the feeling of being underwater as he watches Geralt - his giant smile, his shining eyes. 

“I’m trying to be serious,” he continues. 

“Okay, okay.” Jaskier takes a deep breath, his grin breaking through his attempts at a straight face a few times before he can control himself. “Okay, go.” 

“Ready?” Geralt raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth struggling not to twitch up.” 

“I’m ready. Serious time, let’s go.” 

Geralt takes a drink from the bottle. “After all that dragon crap, I was angry at myself, about all the shit with Yennefer. And I t-took it out on you which was _ss_ mean.” 

Jaskier feels the need to have another drink, comfortable with how blatantly the once stoic Witcher is now laying out his emotions. But Geralt needs to say this as much as Jaskier needs to hear it. 

“And I’m sorry.” The slur to his words doesn’t take away the sincerity in his voice. 

“Geralt - ”

“Wait, there’s more.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier takes that drink. 

Geralt continues, “I’m sorry for being a dick in general. I’m sorry for calling your singing a filling-less pie. I’m sorry for - fuck, I’m sorry for everything.” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt, don't - no, you don’t need to apologise.”

“I _do_.” 

He keeps shaking his head, letting his body sway with it until Geralt puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. 

“I - fuck, Geralt, I said disgusting things to you and - ”

“That wasn’t you,” the Witcher rushes. “Not your fault.” 

“But I remember it.” His voice tightens, trying desperately to keep himself from crying but his drunken mind has other ideas. “And I need - I need to know that I’ve told you th-hat I didn’t mean any of it.” 

“I know. Trust me, I know.” 

A tear slips down Jaskier’s cheek despite his best efforts. And, to the surprise of both of them, Geralt reaches out and wipes it away. 

His hand lingers on Jaskier’s skin, forcing the bard to meet his gentle gaze. 

Jaskier can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips. 

“What?” Geralt asks, the tender moment gone. “What did I say?” 

“Nothing, I - ” the bard laughs - “it’s just, I wouldn’t have thought we’d end up here.” 

Geralt laughs too, the sound unlike one Jaskier has ever heard. It’s soft and sweet and warm, nothing he’d thought would come from such a usually indifferent man. 

“It’s weird,” Geralt agrees. “But I like it.” 

“Me too.” 

“Good. Let’s finish this off.” Geralt takes the bottle from Jaskier, chugging back almost half of the contents much to the amazement of the bard. 

Eagerly, Jaskier takes the drink and tries to mimic the Witcher. He doesn’t finish quite as much but Geralt’s wide smile makes up for it. 

Time blurs past as the bottle is drained, Jaskier knows he won’t remember this tomorrow. 

“We should go,” Geralt says, knocking the empty bottles around them over. They glatter loudly but fortunately don’t break. 

Jaskier looks up the stairwell. “How?” 

“Fuck, uh, together?” 

It’s a struggle to bring each other to their feet, stumbling and swaying but eventually manage to stand relatively straight. 

Leaning against each other, Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier's shoulders and they take the stairs one by one, slowly. Their hands scramble for purchase on the stone walls beside them as they drag themselves up. Somehow, they reach the top of the stairs, laughing all the way, and still holding onto each other, collapse in Yennefer’s spare bed. 

They sleep peacefully, uncaring how their limbs tangle together or of the painful hangover that will come. 

—

“Before winter sets in, I want to take Ciri to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says late one night. 

They’re leaning against the side of Yennefer’s cottage, Jaskier sits with his legs crossed, knee resting on Geralt’s outstretched legs. There’s nothing intimate about it and yet, Jaskier feels a warmth growing in his chest. 

“You could come if you like,” the Witcher finishes. 

A breeze floats by, sending another shiver down Jaskier’s spine. Geralt looks to him, silently asking again if he wants to go inside. He doesn’t. He likes the cold, he likes feeling something that doesn’t belong to him. 

He blinks slowly - it’s late and it’s not like he sleeps much anyway. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” he answers at last.” 

“Great. That’s, uh, that’s great.” 

Jaskier finally gives up trying to make sense of the shadows in the tree line and turns to face Geralt. There’s a gentleness to his eyes that for sure didn’t exist when they were together. 

“Ciri’s made you soft,” Jaskier says. He smiles with the words. 

“Is that a bad thing?” Geralt asks, his hand comes to rest on the bard’s knee, thumb rubbing gently on his skin. 

Without thinking, Jaskier takes the Witcher’s hand in his, squeezing tightly. His heart flutters when Geralt squeezes back. 

“No,” Jaskier says quietly, his voice betraying him. “No, I quite like it.” 

“I’m glad.” 

Geralt licks his lips, eyes darting down, and Gods, that isn’t fair - there’s a pull in the bard’s chest, a warmth drawing him closer and closer and - 

“Jaskier.” He says the name so softly, like the bard is something fragile, needing to be protected - something innocent. “I want - do you - it’s your - ”

“Just fucking kiss me, Witcher.” 

Geralt’s lips are on his, gently, but Jaskier needs _more_. He pushes back, firm and rough and desperate. Hungry. Like he’s been starving for decades, there is nothing in him and he needs Geralt. 

All he can think is _this is right. This is how it’s meant to be_. Every lover that’s come before was a mere distraction until he could reach this moment. 

Jaskier moves, straddling his Witcher because he sure as hell won't make the move. He cups Geralt’s face, relishing in this control - _finally_ being in charge of his life, his body. 

Geralt groans into Jaskier's mouth, a needy, animalistic sound that sends Jaskier reeling. He's as hungry as the bard, hands drifting to his waist and pulling him closer. 

Breathless and grinning from ear to ear, Jaskier pulls back, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. 

“That was…” Geralt trails off.   
  
“Yeah, it was.” 

Geralt gives a breathy laugh, unable to form any words. 

“So,” Jaskier says, “Kaer Morhen, huh?” 

—

It’s a bittersweet day they leave. Roach is packed with enough gear and a familiar lute. Ciri waits with her, just out of earshot as Geralt and Jaskier bid their farewells to the sorceress. 

“I can’t thank you enough, Yenn,” Geralt says. 

“Try,” Yennefer says bluntly. 

Jaskier stifles a laugh, ignoring the Witcher’s glare. Yenn shares a small grin with him - which has been the strangest thing to have happened so far. Jaskier and Yennefer became friendly, well, as friendly as they can be. 

“Right, uh, well, I’ll make sure Ciri is good to go.” With that, Geralt drags himself away from Jaskier’s side, giving the other two space to talk. 

Jaskier moves so that he and Yenn stand side by side before her home, letting their shoulders bump together. They watch the Witcher take his horse’s reins, holding her steady as the young lion cub climbs onto Roach’s back. 

“You should come with us,” Jaskier says. 

“I’m still pissed at him.” 

“Me too. But it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to.” 

Yenn hums, almost considering it. “Mara needs me. I can’t leave her.” 

Jaskier stiffens at the mention of the mage, he tries not to think about anyone from that time. 

“How is she?” he asks. 

“See for yourself.” Yennefer looks at him from the corner of her eye, not the first time she’s offered to take him to see the girl. And, like every other time, Jaskier can’t fight against the painful twist in his stomach at the mere thought. 

“That probably wouldn’t be a good idea.” 

“Whatever you say. You should get going, then, don’t leave the Witcher waiting.” 

“Yes, uh, well - ” Jaskier licks his lips, unsure of himself - “if you ever need something - ”

“You owe me your life, I know.” She smirks. 

There’s nothing else that needs to be said and so, Jaskier leaves - joining Geralt’s side. With a brief kiss in greeting, Jaskier climbs onto Roach’s back behind Ciri, letting her rest against his chest. 

With her reins, Geralt leads Roach away, Yennefer watching them go. 

The road seems shorter with Ciri and the nights are warmer with Geralt. And slowly Ave and her cruel games become no more than a hazy memory - besides, he needs more room in his mind to hold his new family. A real family. 


End file.
